You Were There
by flawlesspeasant
Summary: After being left stranded by her boyfriend at a Seattle gas station, 17 year old Jo is left with nowhere else to go. With the help of Amelia, a neurosurgeon battling her own demons, she finds an unlikely home and makes a new life for herself, building lifelong friendships and unbreakable bonds along the way until eventually, she finds the most unlikely thing of all: love.
1. Stories

**A/N:** Hey guys, it's me again :) I know I've been kind of absent here lately and I know that I haven't written a good quality story in a while, and I apologize for that. But I just want to say that I'm BACK and better than ever! :) If you've been following Over My Head, I just wanted to say that that story is on hiatus until further notice. I believe that I'll go back to it eventually, but as of right now, my heart and soul is invested in this story right here.

So before you guys start reading this, I just wanted to let you guys know that this is something completely different from anything I've ever done. This will probably be my most mature piece of writing ever, for one. And for two, this is the first time I've ever attempted to co-write a story. This story is co-written with one of my best friends. You may know her on here as shelizabeth or on tumblr as shelizabethwriting. We had an idea for this very emotional fic and we decided to tackle it. I hope you guys are pleased with what we come up with. I think you will be.

 **There will be more than one narrator throughout this entire story. Equal emphasis will be put on both Amelia and Jo separately and as friends, as well as their relationships with Owen, and later to come, Alex.**

 **Enjoy!**

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We used to ride to work together. That's what I miss most, I realize, as I'm driving down the familiar interstate. The trees are beautiful, at least they should be. They'd be breathtaking to anyone normal. The entire world is a blur of red and orange and yellow, the best kind of mess, the kaleidoscope explosion of trees that have always comforted me. I've always liked the fact that they do what they need to do in summer and they don't linger. When the temperatures drop and the sun starts to hide, the leaves flutter to uncertainty. They don't hold on, hoping things might get better, hoping things might go back to normal. Everything changes, and they fall to the ground, not knowing what may be at the bottom for them, and not caring.

I used to miss silent car rides. I used to long for them when Teddy was yelling in my ear, screaming things like _Mommy, Mommy! Look at my booger, it's green, right?_ and Owen would hum along in the driver's seat, grinning as I told our son yes, honey, your booger is green. No, you can't eat it. Here, take this tissue.

I used to long for the peaceful rides of quiet, with not even the radio playing. Just me, the trees, and the mechanical hum of a car in gear. But the silence is nearly unbearable. I play the radio, but my ears still buzz with the sounds of their voices, and there's something in me, something deep within the depths of my body, that longs for them the way they used to be mine. Some days are worse than others. Today is one of the worst.

Six years ago, when I found out I was pregnant, Owen and I celebrated by drinking sparkling water out of a bottle that looked like wine, and eating cheese and crackers on the floor of our living room, joking that our days of fine dining were over. We acted like we didn't feel capable of vomiting up rainbows and puppies at the idea, or vomiting or excreteing whatever you might do when happiness leaks out every inch of your body. I found out a month before our wedding. We were planning it, we wanted him, but we didn't expect it to happen so fast. That's why I stopped birth control two months before. I figured it would take a little while for my body to adjust. But he came right away, eager and willing, and for five years he stayed that way. Eager and willing, innocent and hopeful, a beautiful, loving little boy.

I left earlier than I needed to leave, before Teddy even woke up. I've started to do it every day just to avoid the fallout between Owen and me. I don't want to hear the concern in Owen's voice, I don't want the fight when I want to take him to school. I don't want any of it anymore. So I slip in and out before and after the sunrise and sunset. I tell Owen I'm too tired to talk, and it's not a lie. The idea of talking is exhausting. The idea of anything is exhausting. So I leave before I have to wear myself out, and I drive down the same roads every day, long, winding back roads that are an unnecessary detour.

Today, the thought of Teddy makes tears well up in my eyes and I know I can't drive much longer. They're pressing at my eyelids and stinging, filling them so quick that I can't see anymore. I can't see anything through this thick wall of water and for a second I let myself consider the possibility of driving still. I consider letting the car go, letting it swerve into a pole or tree or any sort of death sentence, but then I think of Teddy asking where his mommy is and Owen telling him I'm never coming back, and I imagine the way his face will crumble, and then I pull over into the next parking lot on my left. One of the only buildings on this street. Stop 'N Go. A gas station, but my tank is full. It's always full, just because it's something to do once I get near halfway and I have time to kill before work. I pull around to the side of the building and put my car in park, crouching forwards and letting the sobs come out of me. They're monstrous, even scary. I don't recognize the person making these sounds. They're ugly and coming from deep down in my throat, and they sound more like an animal cry than anything. But it feels good to let them out. It feels like I'm being emptied out, and that feels good, because I want none of whatever is inside of me. I wish I could cry it all out and truly be empty; I wish I could be a blank slate. I could go home and be everything my family needed from me. So I let myself cry until my body stops on its own. My cheeks are paved with my tracks of tears and I carry a heavy, puffy feeling around my eyes when I glance at the dashboard for the time. I have an hour until work and I don't feel like I have the energy to drive around aimlessly anymore. I haven't eaten breakfast in months, but something about my crying fit made my stomach contract with angry hunger sounds, so I fish around in the cup holder between the seats to find the crumpled up five dollar bill I know is there.

As soon as I step out of my car and into the air, I'm freezing cold. The air is the kind of cold that stings when the wind hits your skin. I didn't even know there was wind today, and the thought of this makes me suddenly ashamed. Of all things to be ashamed of, and I have plenty, I'm ashamed that I didn't notice the wind when I walked out this morning. What kind of idiot, what kind of withdrawn selfish egocentrical idiot, doesn't even notice the wind when it's this cold? I cross my arms to shield myself from the wind instinctively, but then I let them dangle at my sides, deciding that I deserve to have to embrace the cold for not noticing this morning. I linger outside the door of the gas station for a few moments, punishing myself with a few moments of wind, before the bell on the door jingles and I walk into the heated mini-mart, shivering and hugging myself to warm up. Upon rows of processed baked goods and one row of feminine products and other emergency necessities, I pace between them all. I don't know what I'm looking for, but I can feel eyes on me as I walk. There are only two other people in the shop: the man behind the counter, a middle-aged man with scruff on his face and a beer belly poking out of his pants. Over a white wife beater tank top, just a size small enough to let his chest hair poke out of the sides, he wears an unbuttoned flannel. His baseball cap is brown, freckled with white spots all over it where it had been worn down. He's a little intimidating, but he off-sets it with a big smile and a tug on his cap.

"Cold day out there, huh?" he asks.

"Yeah," I try to offer him a smile as friendly as the one he offered me. "Biting cold."

"Lucky I'm in here all day then," he says, then laughs, a kind of howl. "Never thought the day would come when I'd say that, heh?"

I'm not sure if crooked smiles are a myth, but when I imagine how my face looks, it's an awkward, crooked smile. I don't know what he expects me to say to that. I've never seen this man in my life, I have no idea what his history is, and if there would ever be a day when he'd want to stand around in a gas station all day. I look to the only other person in the store, a baby-faced girl with a round belly and downcast eyes. She stares at the floor, twiddling her feet, and giving me nothing to work with. She looks young, too young to be carrying a baby, and suddenly, I have the desire to know her story. I wondered who she was, who she loved, and how she ended up pregnant and completely alone in a Stop 'N Go in the early morning hours. Was she waiting for a ride? Was she a surrogate mother, trying to make extra money for college tuition while simultaneously giving a couple the greatest gift in the world? Was she like me, avoiding someone because it hurt too much to love them? I don't know what came over me, but I suddenly felt compelled to talk to her. I start to say something, I plan to ask her what her name is, but I'm interrupted by a buzzing in my pocket. I spin my phone out and right side up, looking at the caller ID. The name OWEN HUNT pops up along with a picture of my husband. It's my favorite picture of him. He's laughing with Teddy on his lap. They look like little twins, with their matching red hair. Teddy's name was originally going to be Daniel Theodore, or Addilyn Theodora if he was a girl. We had decided on both, Daniel because we both liked Danny and Addilyn because Addie would be in honor of my sister. Either way, our first child's middle name would be in tribute to Owen's truest and longest friend. I completely supported the idea and I loved it, but it was a middle name. We didn't plan to call him by it. But then he was born, and born with a fireball of red hair on top of his head and I couldn't help but laugh. He was a little Owen. He slid into the name Owen Theodore Shepherd-Hunt like it had been made for him, because it had been. I wouldn't call him Owen, though. That I refused. Seamlessly, he became Teddy Bear, and then Teddy. Our son, that was born so much of Owen, but somehow had so much of me wedged inside of him.

"Hey," I answer quietly, stepping back out into the angry wind. It whips my hair across my face and chunks get stuck over the wetness on my lips. I pull it away while I wait for him to respond.

"Where the hell are you?" he asks. He barks at me and makes me draw back, even through the phone. I should have expected it, but I didn't.

"I left for work early. I had a-"

"Did you forget?"

"Crap," I mutter. I had completely forgot. I wouldn't have left if I had remembered. "What time is it? I can come back now."

"Forget it, Amelia," he says, and I realize that his disappointment is worse than his anger. He really believed in me. He thought I would be there. "...Just forget it."

"I'll come back now, Owen! I'm coming back now. Don't leave without me, okay?"

"I'm leaving in twenty minutes, whether you're here or not." I nod my head, even though he can't see me. The phone is silent, but I know he's still there. He's always there. "I love you," he finally says.

"I love you too," I whisper.

"Come home now," he urges, and I nod again, feeling phlegm building up in my throat. I hang up the phone and walk back into the store, feeling like my business isn't finished there. I don't have much time, even though I know Owen won't really leave without me. He'll wait for me, but I don't want to make him wait, so I decide to speed it up. I walk through the aisles and pull off a bag of peanut butter pretzels. I'm not going to eat them, I'm not hungry anymore, but I need a reason to have come back in. My eyes are still on the girl with the long brown hair and the swollen stomach, her arms loosely buckled across it as if she's ashamed of having it and trying to hide it. I put the bag down on the counter without taking my eyes off her.

"Excuse me," I say. I sniff away any residual signs of crying that might be lurking in my throat, then cough to clear it. "Sorry, are you waiting in line?"

She looks up and looks if she's genuinely puzzled, as if she can't believe I actually spoke to her. Before her mouth opens, her head shakes. "N-no," she stutters. "I'm not."

"Okay," I nod, still unable to take my eyes off her. For the first time, it occurs to me that she isn't holding anything in the hands that are wrapped around herself. I decide she must be waiting for a ride. It's the only thing that makes sense. I think of a whole story for her life using my surrogate guess from earlier. She's going to school to be a vet, and when she went home for break, she had a long talk with her friendly neighbors who have always desperately wanted a child. She's a good person at heart, so this was a no brainer. Of course she would do it, despite the stares she would get for her age. She was driving back to school and her car broke down, and she's waiting for her loving, funny, charismatic boyfriend to come pick her up. Someday they'll get married and have their own babies. But even as this story unfolds itself layer by layer in my mind, I know it's just a story. It's a bitter reminder by the sunken look in her eyes, the dirty clothes she's wearing. I hand over my five to the friendly cashier and tell him to keep the change, mostly because I'm too preoccupied with the girl to bother myself with collecting it back in my hand and carrying it back to the car.

I force myself to look away, to look down at the pretzels I don't want, and to remember Owen and Teddy. I picture Owen waiting in the driveway, the car already running, and that's enough to push me out of the gas station. I don't know if I'll ever see the girl again after I leave, but something tells me it won't be long before I find myself at the little Stop 'N Go once again. I tell myself I have my own life and my own problems to worry about, Lord knows I have enough of them, and I tell myself I won't come back here looking for her. The thought makes me smile. I used to be an expert at lying to myself. I'm glad I still have it in me.

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 **And so you guys have a better idea as to how this story is going to work, I also posted chapter two tonight...just so you guys can fall in love with this story a little quicker :)**


	2. Pull Over

The snicker of his finger quickly brushing along the thumbwheel of his portable Zippo lighter makes me jump and turn my head to see what it was that made the noise. I don't know why I felt the need to look over and see what it was, because I can pick that noise out anywhere. I'm used to it by now from hearing it so many times. I hear it after he eats, before he heads into the bathroom, while he's sitting in the chair reading the newspaper and even when he's busy sitting at the kitchen table, counting the things he isn't supposed to be counting. I hear that noise so many times a day that I should be accustomed to it by now and in some ways, I am. What I'm not accustomed to is the horrible smell that follows the sound.

Sure enough, he brings the flame to the white cylinder dangling between his lips and sparks it. He tosses the lighter in the cupholder, places the cylinder between his two fingers and takes a drag. God, I wish he wouldn't smoke. I swallow the urge to cough as the foul-smelling and sour-tasting smoke fills the air and seeps into my nostrils. I have half a mind to ask him if he could put that out or roll down a window, but I know that my efforts would be fruitless because he doesn't listen to anyone and he has no regards for me, much less the third person in this car. I've told him plenty of times before that I don't appreciate it when he smokes in my car but he doesn't care so I just learned to let it go. I could pull the "don't smoke in my car" card, but then he'd just use the whole "I put gas in it and I fixed the brakes" rebuttal and I don't have the energy to argue with him. So, instead of asking him to put it out, which would undoubtedly cause an argument, I just turn my head away from it and stare out the window.

From the corner of my eye, I watch as he leans forward and taps the volume button on the radio. He blows out a mouthful of smoke and wraps his hands back around the steering wheel, letting his ash fall onto the floor of my car. His fingers drum along to the tune of Paradise City and he leans back to lounge as we continue on along this long stretch of highway. If I'm quiet enough, I can hear him mumbling the lyrics to himself. But only if I'm quiet enough.

Deep in my lower back, my muscles start to ache, so I put one hand on my stomach and the other hand on the seat and scoot myself back so it has more support. I keep the one hand on my stomach but the other hand, I rest on the door handle and stare out the window. Sometimes, if I stare at the trees passing me by long enough, I can lull myself to sleep. Sleep isn't something I come by often, especially when I'm either sitting upright in the passenger's side or stuffed in the backseat of a 1990 Grand Am. It's just hard to sleep lately. Back when I was a little less weighty, I could fall asleep no problem but these days, it's almost impossible to get comfortable and by the time I do get comfortable, it's time for me to wake up.

I rest my head back against the headrest of the seat I'm sitting in and stare at the trees, which are passing by in a whirl of yellow, orange and red. The colors all mix together to create somewhat of a deep brown color but it's still pretty nonetheless. With the heater vent pointed directly at me, my shoes kicked off to let my aching ankles rest and my eyes pointed at the world outside, my eyes start to feel like they're being weighed down. Each and every blink I take feels heavier and heavier and I know that eventually, my eyes just won't open. And for the first time in the two days that we've been driving, I feel like I'm actually comfortable enough to get some rest.

I don't know what's in Canada, but whatever it is has to be better than Nevada. Life in Canada has got to be better than living in constant fear that the police are going to break your door down, arrest your boyfriend and you too, even though you do your best to not get involved. It's gotta be better than feeling obligated to help your boyfriend conceal his illegal money-making tactics and for God's sake, it's got to be better than being forced to wake up in the middle of the night, pack your belongings into one lousy duffle bag and flee the entire state. Whatever life in Canada turns out to be, it's got to turn out better than this. It'd be hard to get worse.

I can feel myself falling into a more restful sleep, so to ensure that I'm not bothered out of it this time, I pull up the sleeve on my black jacket and cover my mouth and nose with it so that I'm not inhaling any more of his cigarette smoke. I close my eyes and let my body relax. I keep my hand draped across my stomach, my other one clamped over my nose and mouth and leave my unruly, wavy brown hair to cluster around my chest. As it always does before I fall completely asleep, my mind starts racing. It's annoying, but I don't mind it much because it's usually an indication that I'm about to be asleep for a while. Sometimes I make a game out of it though. Sometimes I find myself wondering what my mind is going to flicker to.

This time, it starts running through my obligations. It starts running through my plan. What am I going to do when we get to Canada? Well first, I'm going to get a job. Preferably at a supermarket like my last job. I'll bust my ass for these last three months and maybe by then I'll have enough to pay for my GED test. I'm used to working so busting my ass at a job isn't something I'm worried about. I've had three jobs since I was old enough to work and I babysat for a couple of my high school teachers a whole lot for spare change before I was old enough. Since the legal working age in Nevada is sixteen, I've only been old enough to legally work for almost two years but still. On my sixteenth birthday, the first thing I did was get a work permit from the school. The second thing I did was get my driver's license. I don't know many places that would hire me, considering the fact that I'd have to go on leave in three months, but I'm a hard worker. I worked hard all through freshman and sophomore year and I was able to buy this car. I should be able to save up enough in three months to pay for my GED test.

Just as I feel my mind slip into an unconscious slumber, my entire body shakes as a chill shoots up my spine as a result of the sudden pressure in my lower abdomen. My eyes snap open and as soon as I move my legs around a little, I recognize the pressure sensation. It's not hard to mistake. I've been feeling it for months now and it's pretty much constant. That's why I'm not irritated nor surprised when it comes just as I was getting comfortable. It happens at the most inconvenient times and it's something I've learned to deal with. I turn my head toward him and swallow to lubricate my throat before I speak.

"I have to pee," I mumble, grogginess from being sleepy still wearing thin on my voice.

"What else is new?" he retorts, shrugging his shoulders and keeping his eyes on the road. I just stare at him and I can tell by the growing look of discomfort on his face that he can feel my eyes boring into the side of his profile. "Dammit Jo, can't you just hold it?"

"No," I shake my head. If I could hold it, I really would. I wouldn't have even bothered to ask him, if I could hold it. But I literally can't. My bladder feels like it's going to combust. "Just pull over real quick," I beg. "I'll be fast. I just have to pee."

"Well you're gonna have to hold it anyway. I'm not stopping until we at least get to Tacoma."

"How long is that going to take?" I can hear my tone crossing over from a speak into a whine as my mood descends into complete sourness but I can't help it. He can't deny me the right to pee. Either he lets me out to pee or I'm going to piss all over this car and I have a feeling that he won't like that. "Where are we now? How far is Tacoma?" He ignores me. "Chris, c'mon. I'll be so quick. I just have to pee!"

"It's only another hour, hour and a half. You can wait. I'm not pulling over on a highway so you can piss outside like some damn animal."

He stretches his neck and looks up in the rearview mirror. Once he sees that the coast is clear, he merges into the other lane and steps down on the gas. I fold my arms across my chest and look back out the window, trying to ignore the feeling in my pelvis. I don't know how I'm going to hold it in until we get to Tacoma but I guess I'll have to find a way. I guess I understand why he gets so annoyed with me. I'd get annoyed with me too, actually. But it's not something that I can help. I sigh hard, loud enough for him to hear it and turn away so that my back is literally facing him. As if the clouds are opening up and God's shedding some light down on me for once, my eyes spot a bright green sign sticking out of the ground. I gloss over the words on it only once before I turn back to Chris.

"Chris, there's a gas station right off the next exit," I point at the sign just outside my window. "Can you stop there so I can use the bathroom?"

"I'm not stopping until we get to Tacoma. You're gonna have to suck it up and hold it." He reaches in the left pocket of his jeans and grabs the smashed carton of his cigarettes. He sparks another cigarette up again and takes a drag before turning his head towards me and blowing the smoke out. "You know what will happen if we stop while it's light outside and the cops run this plate? You know how many cops will be on our ass? We aren't stopping until Tacoma just like we planned to. I'm not taking any chances."

"Where else do you want me to pee then? I can't help my bladder. It's not-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he rolls his eyes at me. "I know. It's not your fault. I'm still not stopping." He blows another mouthful of cigarette smoke at me and watches the road again.

I sigh and look down at my sock-covered feet. I wiggle my toes inside of them and try to remember again what size I was before they blew up. I was a size seven before but these days I can hardly fit into an eight and a half. I wonder if they'll go back down when this is all done and over. I bend my toes forward and listen to them crack before I get bored and look straight again. If I could just go to sleep then I would be able to hold my pee until we get to Tacoma. But I'm not going to be able to sleep if I have to pee this bad. I might as well just go on myself. It'll be gross, especially after it seeps through the seat cushions but I really can't hold it. I'll be sticky and wet between my legs but at least I won't have to pee anymore. I look down at what I can see between my legs past the obstacle under my shirt. This is so degrading, but I have to pee so badly and he's not going to pull over so I can do it. He's too scared to run into cops to pull over. Somehow I have to pay for the fact that he's wanted across all 50 states.

Just as I allow my lower muscles to begin to push out my urine, a loud beeping noise stops me dead in my tracks. The base of my panties is just a little bit damp from the small amount that trickled out, but for the most part, I'm dry. I snap my head up and look towards the source of the beeping, which is coming from my dashboard. On the dashboard, the gas light is urgently blinking to let us know that we're dangerously low on gas. Normally, I'd panic a little bit because when the gas light in this car comes on, it means that we're DANGEROUSLY low on gas. But this time, I celebrate a little bit, internally. Because that means I'll get to go pee now.

"Look!" I exclaim, gearing my index finger toward the blinking light. "The gas light's on, so you have to stop anyway. You might as well take this exit and go to the gas station anyway."

"What part of 'I'm not stopping this car' don't you understand?!" he turns his head and snaps at me.

"Chris, we're going to run out of gas!"

"I DON'T CARE! I'M NOT STOPPING THIS CAR! YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THAT WE CAN MAKE IT ANOTHER HOUR ON THIS TANK OF GAS. SUCK IT UP AND STOP BEING A BABY!"

I fold my arms across my chest and take a deep, deep breath to keep from blowing up on him. It's not good if I let my blood pressure rise and it's not good if I scream and yell at him. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek to bear with the fact that I really want to tell him to pull over and give me my damn car back. It's my car. I paid for it, in full, with a whole six months worth of paychecks saved up. I paid for the car, the title is in my name and I got the car insurance on it. It's MINE and the only reason he's driving it right now is because I can't fit underneath the steering wheel anymore. But it's still my car so technically, he should pull over and do as I say. It's my car.

With my teeth still clenched around the skin on my inner cheek, I look at the gas gauge. I stare at it. I probably look like a blank slate with the way I'm staring expressionlessly at the gauge but I'm not. I'm thinking. My mind is working. My mind is working, perfecting it until I have clear cut evidence. I have to be precise. I can't offer half-ass evidence. It has to be absolutely correct. I narrow my eyes, stumbling over the last number. When I've got the answer, I swallow, clear my throat and look at him.

"We'll run out of gas by 6:30 if you don't stop to fill up the tank now," I start. He doesn't bother looking at me. He squeezes the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles pop out, his jaw clenches and he looks straight. "You've been going at a steady 40 miles per hour for the last three hours, which means we travel 120 miles every three hours. If it took us three hours to use up half a tank, it'll take us another three hours to use up the rest. Assuming that a full tank lasts us nine hours like it did yesterday, we've already used up seven and a half out of nine hours, which means that we'll run out of gas by-"

"Jesus Christ!" He slams his fists against the wheel and angrily flicks on his turn signal to get onto the exit that'll take us to the gas station. "I hate it when you do that! Y-you think just 'cause you know math 'n stuff you can confuse me and get me to do whatever the damn hell you want me to do. You think just cause you're Miss Smarty Pants over there, you can just-" he stops mid-sentence when he looks over and sees that I'm staring out the window and completely tuning him out. All I'm thinking about is the fact that I'm about to get to release this bladder of mine and he can tell. "You're not even listenin' are you?!"

"Huh?" I look over at him.

"...You're not smarter than me, Jo," he mumbles, shaking his head and putting his eyes yet again, back on the road. "You didn't even finish high school." Finally, he pulls into the lot of a gas station called Stop 'n Go and parks the car at a pump. I pull the lock up to let myself out, but before I can open the door, he grabs my arm and squeezes it, which makes me turn around and face him. "If you were nearly as smart as you think you are, you would've at least had a diploma by now."

"I never said I was smarter than you, Chris," I sigh and pull away from him. "I just want you to look at things logically sometimes. You and I both know that we weren't making it to Tacoma on lower than half a tank of gas." I don't even bother stuffing my feet into shoes. They're swollen, they hurt and all I'm doing is running into a bathroom. I can run into a bathroom in socks. "Can I have a little bit of money?"

"For what, Jo?" He throws his head back. "Every time I turn around, it's something with you. You need money for this, you need money for that. I just gave you money to buy those pre-something pill vitamins last month. You always need money from me. You have a fuckin' job." He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a thick wad of cash anyway. "How much do you need?" He mumbles and before I get a chance to tell him, he blows up again. "HOW MUCH DO YOU FUCKIN' NEED?"

"I don't know!" I throw my hands up. "I just want like...a water or something. Water's probably only like a few bucks. And maybe a bag of chips...I'm just hungry. We haven't really eaten much of anything since we left McDonald's this morning…"

"Here," he throws a twenty and a five dollar bill at me. "Tell them to put $20 on the first pump and use the rest to get whatever the hell you want."

"Thanks," I mumble and get out of the car. I carefully walk across the ice cold ground and open up the door to go into the station. I leave the brisk, crisp fall air of outside and step into the warmth of the small but neat and clean gas station. I squeeze my thighs together to hold my bladder and drag my bare feet over to the service counter. "Can I have twenty on pump number one, please?"

"Sure thing," the man nods his head, takes my money and punches things into a computer.

He tries handing me a receipt but I decline it with a shake of my head. I don't mean to be rude, but I take the leftover five dollars and make a beeline for the bathroom. I should've said "thank you" to the man but I can't hold this anymore. I knock on the bathroom door and wait for someone to tell me that it's in use. Nobody does, so I open the door and clamber right inside. I flick on the light, lock the door and pull my pants down. I squat over the toilet and dear God, it feels so good. I brace my belly with my hand and just let it all out and I feel like a new woman. I even get chills, that's how good this feels.

"Wooh," I whisper to myself as I lean over and grab some toilet paper out the dispenser. Sometimes, I feel like a crazy person because I talk to myself an awful lot. But then, I just remember that I'm not exactly talking to myself per se, because I'm never alone. It still feels weird to say words to someone that can't talk back, but I guess it helps my sanity to think that I'm not exactly talking to myself all the time.

I wipe myself real good, flush the toilet and quickly wash my hands. As I leave the bathroom, I shut the door and bank a left for the chip aisle. I grab a medium-sized bag of Lays potato chips and a small bottle of spring water. I know it's not the most nutritious thing to feed myself but I rationalize that if I eat junk but still take those horse pills everything will be okay. I take my snacks to the checkout counter and put them up so he can ring them.

"This everything, hon?"

"Yes sir."

"$4.95."

I hand him the five dollar bill and take my receipt and my nickel. I grab the chips and the water and give the man a smile, even though I don't have much to smile about. I never have much to smile about but that doesn't mean that I should be a shitty person. It's nobody else's fault that my life sucks. "Thank you, have a nice night." I turn around and head right for the exit, not waiting to get back to the car before opening the bag of chips. I stuff my hand into the bag of chips to get a nice handful to eat and stuff them hungrily into my mouth. As I walk towards where Chris parked the car, I side-step a bright orange duffle bag that's neatly placed on the sidewalk. _I have a duffle just like that._ I lick my lips and stuff another handful of chips into my mouth before stepping down off the curb to lead me to the gas pumps, which are emptier than they were when I went into the gas station. Something's not right here. I stop mid-chew and wrinkle my brow, looking up at the pump numbers. _Pump one._ I tilt my head. This is the right pump. I'm standing right here, it's pump one. It's the right pump.

….So why isn't my car here?


	3. Waiting

**Jo's Point of View**

When I see the bright flash of lights crawling along the black asphalt road about a hundred or so feet in front of me in my peripheral vision, I pick my head up and look straight. I see the lights snake a left turn as if they're coming into the parking lot of the Stop 'n Go and for a moment, my heart floats back up into my chest from the depths of my stomach where it sunk to about three hours ago. My heart floats up to my chest, and it dangles there for a few hopeless moments before sinking back down to its respectful place once I see that the car that the headlights belong to is a white Ford Escape and not a 1990 Grand Am. At this point, I know I can pretty much forget about him coming back. I know that he's not going to. I know that he's not going to come back for me, so I don't know why everytime I see headlights creeping up in my field of vision, I allow myself to get my hopes up. It seems a bit redundant and I know this, but still...every time I see white lights illuminating the yellow lines on the black road, I feel the need to pick my head up, look and find a little glimmer of hope. This is my last time though. I've been doing it for three hours and when I started, the sun was still up. It's long gone now.

My fingers tremble as I slip them into my jacket pocket and fish out my phone again. Although I lost feeling in my fingers a while ago, I still manage to press the tip of my index finger down on the touch screen and slide it across to open it. I situate my phone between my stiff, cold hands and slowly maneuver my thumbs around to type out his number. If the screen was bigger, I imagine this would be an easier task to do with frozen fingers but my phone is an outdated iPhone 4 and the screen is only but so big. I tap the green "call" button and slowly bring my phone up to my ear, my hands shaking the entire time.

When I exhale through my mouth, my breath leaves a white smoky trail in it's wake. Unsurprisingly, the phone rings twice before I'm sent to a voicemail. _Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system…_ I've heard those words so many times in the last three hours that I can repeat them verbatim at this point. As I've been doing for three hours now, I wait until the beep sounds on the other end of the phone and when it does, I clear my throat and sit up straight because good posture can make a clear voice, I've heard.

"Chris, it's me again," I hold the phone to my ear with my palm since it's the only thing that has feeling, and look around the parking lot while I speak. The parking lot is virtually empty. There are a few cars here and there, pumping their gas and about to be on their way but as for people, I'm the only one within a three mile radius of the actual station building. "Will you just call me back? P-Please? I don't k-know where you went, but if it was for food then that's real messed up because I'm hungry too, you know…" I sigh into the receiver. "Just call me back whenever you can, okay?"

I put my phone back into my pocket and look down at the fuzzy socks that still cover my feet. I wiggle my toes just to make sure they're still there. I can't feel them, they're absolutely numb, but they're still there. I exhale again and fold my hands across the thing that's like my own personal table. At first, it was kind of an inconvenience. When I wanted to roll over onto my stomach in the middle of the night, I hated it. When I wanted to bend down and pick up the remote every time I dropped it and couldn't, I hated it. I think I hated it the most when I found that shaving my legs and my other parts was nearly impossible. But I guess it's not that bad, when I figure out a new use for it, that is. Like just yesterday when Chris refused to stop the car so I could properly lay out my burger and fries on my lap, I figured out that I can use it for a table and that was pretty neat. I didn't hate it so much then. I don't hate it so much anymore, although it still is a bit of an inconvenience.

While my hands rest on it, my stomach makes an unearthly roaring noise, which attracts my attention down to it. I tuck my chin into my chest and look down at my belly, and when I do, I watch the spot next to my pushed-out navel slowly pop outwards as another roar shoots through. I take my hands away and lean to my left so I can grab the bag of chips I bought with the money Chris gave me. I unroll the bag and slip my fingers down into it, my shoulders slouching when I'm met with nothing but crumbs. I crumple the bag back up and put it on the bench next to me. I lick my lips, which are burning and chapped from sitting out in the windy fall air for three hours, and scoot back. My butt is cold and the metal that the bench is made out of is starting to get really uncomfortable, especially for my back. I wiggle my toes, flex my fingers and blink just to make sure my body is still whole. I'm so numb.

Finally, for the first time since I came out of the gas station to find my dufflebag waiting for me on the sidewalk, I feel a tear slide out of my eye and trickle down my cheek. It's only one single tear, but that tear feels good. My cheeks are so cold and numb and frostbitten that the warm water that is my tear actually burns a trail down my cheek. I reach up and wipe it away, but that was pointless because another tear just comes. I wipe that one away too and find that another comes in its place. Eventually, I give up on wiping them. Instead of wiping my tears, I pull up the sleeves of my jacket so that they cover my hands and then, I press my hands to my face. I inhale deeply, taking in the foul scent of cigarette smoke embedded in the fabric of my jacket and when I exhale, a moan comes out of my mouth. It's the kind of moan that a toddler would moan, and that kind of embarrasses me. I'm seventeen years old, crying like a seven year old.

When I take my hands away from my eyes, my sleeves are saturated with tears and my jaw won't stop trembling. I look around to my left. There aren't any more cars at the pump and the only thing I can see off in the distance is a giant moth flying around the light above the pumps. _Where'd he go? He didn't really just leave me here, did he? Did he?_ I sniff and when I do, a hiccup jolts my chest and comes out through my mouth. I turn my head to my right. There aren't any cars driving up the highway anymore and there isn't any sign of a Grand Am. _Why'd he leave me? I don't even know where I'm at._ I take my bottom lip between my top lip and suck on it, like a baby sucking on a pacifier. He really left me. I'm really stuck here. I nod my head, realizing the horrible reality of my situation and although I don't want to, I lean back against the bench and look forward...and I just cry.

Tears run hot, thick and plentiful down my cheeks and my vision becomes so blurred that the pole straight ahead of where I'm sitting is all fuzzy. The noises that are coming out of me are so unreal. I don't think I've ever heard myself like this before? My eyes feel heavy and puffy and I can hardly keep them open but I can't stop sobbing. My chest is hiccupping, my jaw is trembling and my nose is running. What am I gonna do? I have no job, no money, no car...I have a baby. That's all I have. A few articles of clothing, a cell phone that's going to be cut off soon because Chris pays the bill, a nickel and a baby. That's all I have. What am I going to do? What am I going to...say? Where am I going to live? Where am I going to take my baby? How am I going to eat? I lick my lips again, which still sting, and breathe through my mouth. Maybe there's a payphone inside or something. I know Chris isn't answering because he sees that it's my phone that's calling so maybe if I call him from a payphone… maybe if I report that someone stole my car. I could do that, but...it's no use, they'd just throw me in jail too. I never sold drugs but I'm guilty by association, aren't I? They've been looking for my car since Chris sold a brick of heroin to that undercover cop last week. They find out the car is registered to a Jo Wilson and my ass will be grass just like his.

I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my jacket and clear my throat free of all the phlegm that built up in it through my crying. I brace my belly with my hand and finally pick myself up off the bench after three hours. I pick up my duffle bag, sling it over my shoulder and start waddling to the gas station's entrance, ignoring the aching in my backside and my lower back. _Don't leave the chip bag, that's littering._ I turn back around and pick up the empty chip bag before I continue back on my way into the building. On my way inside, I pass a trashcan that I toss the chip bag into and step into the warmth of the building. Immediately, my entire body tingles with the same sensation felt when feeling is returning back to parts of your body. I sweep my hair out of my face and look around in hopes of a payphone. If and when I find the payphone, I don't know what I'm going to pay for it with. I only have a nickel in my pocket and I doubt a nickel is hardly enough to pay for a phone call, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there. Well, luckily for me, I don't think I'll ever have to cross it because there's no payphone in here anyway.

"E-excuse me?" With chattering teeth, I approach the man working behind the service counter. He stops sorting through packs of cigarettes and looks up at me, raising his bushy gray eyebrows. "What time do you guys close for the night?"

"Ten thirty," he mumbles his answer to me, his eyes locked on mine. A subtle grin creeps across his face and it doesn't take much for me to decipher it. He's thinking of a way to get his way with me. After being with Chris for two years, I'm somewhat of a professional at deciphering the looks that men give whenever they need something from a girl. I look down at the floor, at my fuzzy-sock feet and shy away from him. When I look back up at the man, I find that he's still grinning at me. I take a step back away from the counter and when I do, his eyes fall on my protruding abdomen. As soon as he sees that, all hints of a grin wipe away and the look of disgust replaces it. I'm not offended though. I'm used to it. Most people don't find much to smile about when they see a pregnant seventeen year old.

"Thank you," I nod my head once at him and turn away, my duffle still in tow. I glance up at the analog clock hanging above the lottery machine and find that it's 10:23. This place is closing in seven minutes, so I'd better go. I adjust the grip I have on my duffle and head back for the exit. Wait, I should probably pee first. I don't have to go, but I find that these days, emptying my bladder never hurts. I drag my bag into the bathroom with me and lock the door behind myself. I plop my bag down in the corner next to the sink and go over to the toilet. I unzip my jeans since they aren't buckled and pull them down. I wish I had the money to buy those fancy maternity jeans. I have two pairs of sweatpants to alternate between and the rest are jeans, but I don't mind wearing the jeans. The only thing I hate is how I'm too big to buckle them. They don't button around my waist so I usually just walk around with unbuttoned jeans. But I saw on a commercial that they make these fancy jeans for pregnant women and they looked so comfy. I wish I had the money to buy things like that.

I wipe myself again, flush the toilet and spend a little too long washing my hands. I'm not a neat freak or a germophobe or anything like that. The hot water just feels good as it unthaws my hands and I need a moment or two to enjoy this. My hands are finally getting feeling back in them. Once I've reluctantly decided that my hands are warm enough, I shut of the faucet and dry them on my jacket. I pick my bag up again and open the door.

But when I open the door up this time, I find that the lights are off in the gas station. The lights are off, it's almost pitch black and even the lights outside that used to illuminate the pumps are off. I look up at the analog again. It's only 10:31. Did they really close already? I thought they closed at 10:30! I mean yeah, it's after that, but only by a minute. And don't they check the bathrooms before they close? I come completely out of the bathroom and walk to the exit. I push on the door hard, only to find that it's locked.

"Hello?" I slam my hands against the door. "'Hello?! There's somebody in here!" I look outside, only to find that the parking lot is bare. I wasn't even in the bathroom that long! Oh, come on! Seriously?! This just isn't my day. I really got locked in the gas station. "There's somebody in here…" I whisper to myself and look around the now-dark store. I feel myself getting ready to cry again so I bite my lip to prevent that. My hand flies, instinctively, down to my stomach. I press my back against the glass door for more support and slowly ease myself down to the floor.

With my hands on my stomach, I look around the station, just for a sign. I just want to know where I am. I know I'm in Washington, but I don't know exactly where. I've never really been a fan of Chris, but in this moment, he's really the only person I want. There's no place in the world I'd rather be than back in that car with him, smelling his cigarette smoke, listening to the god-awful heavy metal music, freezing my butt off because he won't turn on the heat. Hell, I'd even rather be back in Nevada living in that cramped up apartment with him. It wasn't much, but it was really the only place I've ever called home. The floors were always dirty and it always smelled like drugs. We didn't have a functioning stove, but we had a microwave. He was never home so I practically lived alone, but there was a bed, a shower and a TV. And there was a place for a crib and I was going to move the bed around so there was room for one of those little swingset things. And I had a job until he made me quit so we could leave the state. Nevada wasn't the best. We lived in a crappy place, my boyfriend sold drugs and had men with guns and illegal substances around, I'm pretty certain that I've been contact high more times than I care to count and it wasn't really the place I wanted to raise a kid. But I'd rather be living in that house with my baby than living here in a gas station.

I put my head against the glass door I'm sitting up against and close my eyes. For a moment, I catch myself thinking that if my eyes are closed, tears won't fall out of them.

But I'm wrong.


	4. I Don't Remember

**Amelia's Point of View.**

The car is full of the people I wanted most, but I feel more alone than ever. Teddy is nodding off in the back seat, his head keeps falling forward until he jerks awake and sits back up. There are two band-aids shaped like an x over the back of his hand, and I realize I have no idea what happened. I don't know when he needed band-aids and what happened so he needed it. I don't know my own child, and it's my own fault. I watch his long eyelashes flutter dreamily and try to connect the little boy in the booster seat to the newborn that I held, that had latched onto me and cried for me. It felt like a lifetime ago, when he loved me. When I let him love me.

"Thanks for waiting," I mutter, picking at the dry skin around my thumbnail. "I didn't want to miss this."

"I know," Owen says. His hands are locked in the perfect 10 and 2 position on the steering wheel, and he keeps his gaze steady, except for when he every so often glances in the rearview mirror to look in the backseat. "He wanted you here."

"How's he doing?" I ask, not sure where my boundaries are. At any moment, Owen could shut down and end the conversation, and I wouldn't be able to do anything about it. "In school, I mean. How's he doing in school? Has his teacher said anything?"

Owen looks skeptical of answering, and for a moment I think the conversation is over. I'm waiting for him to tell me it's none of my business and if I really want to know, I should start showing up. I should be home doing homework with him. I should ask him how his day is over dinner. But I know this already. I know it all. He tells me like it's not running through my head constantly, like it's not the last thing I think about when I lie down at night and the first thing that crosses my mind when I open my eyes in the morning. I think sometimes he just likes to hear his own voice say it. Because as long as he keeps saying it, he can convince himself he's doing something about it. I don't resent him for that, I don't even blame him. There's nothing worse in the world than standing on the outside of a glass wall trying to love someone. He can see me, he can even feel me, but he can't... he can't love me. The glass wall stands between us. I want to tear it down. I'd do anything to tear it down, but instead I sit behind it and watch my life go by on the other side. I watch and dream about the day when Owen and I go back to the Owen and Amelia we were six years ago, sitting on the living room floor eating cheese and crackers and planning the happily ever after we had finally found in each other.

"He's reading on his own," Owen says, bringing me back to the passenger side of our Honda CRV, back to reality. "And he can write some entire sentences. His teacher thinks he's brilliant."

The thought makes my face break into a smile. I put my elbow on the car door to get comfortable, waiting for him to tell me more. I want to know everything.

"He's so smart," I say to encourage Owen to continue, and I glance again back at him in his booster seat, now out like a light. I think I love him more than the entire universe in that moment.

"You should have heard him the other night! We were talking about colors, right? And he brings up the rainbow. He starts talking about how the different-" Owen stops suddenly as the car does, and we're both jolted forwards. The seatbelt burns against my neck where it rubbed against my skin. My head feels like it's bobbling on top of my neck, completely detached, and there's a sharp pain above my forehead, then a trickling wetness. My face fills with the heat of panic when I realize I'm bleeding. My hands tremble as I fuss with the glove compartment, trying to get it open as quickly as possible. I throw out the manual and anything else in my way to the rough, old tissues I always keep spare in the car.

"Are you okay?" Owen asks. I nod, holding the tissue to my forehead. My only thought is Teddy. I want to check on Teddy, but the blood will scare him. If he sees me bleeding, it will terrify him. It's the worst thing I could do to turn around and face him, and I feel hopeless for it.

"Teddy?" I ask Owen.

"Well, he's awake and alert now," Owen answers, immediately understanding. He looks back at him and laughs. I know he's laughing to make Teddy feel better, but it helps me too. "You okay, buddy?"

I can't see it, but I can imagine it. It's like I can feel it when Teddy nods to answer him. I can imagine his ocean blue eyes wide and frightened, but feeling safe because Owen is there. That helps and makes everything worse all at once.

"It was a cat," Owen explains, even though I didn't ask. I wouldn't have asked. I didn't ask because it doesn't matter. "Out of nowhere. I'm sorry, guys."

"It's not your fault," I tell him, still holding the napkin over my forehead. It's a small cut, because it didn't bleed much. Two napkins over it, and it didn't even go through. It's already drying up. "It's not your fault," I repeat, but I'm not thinking about him anymore. He knows it, I can tell, and the car is quiet. "Let's just go. I don't want to be late for the parent-teacher conference."

* * *

I thought teachers meet with parents together, but Mrs. Boyle wanted to meet with Owen and me separately. I sit outside the classroom, in chairs lining the hallway, with Teddy swinging his legs back and forth next to me. His ankles are crossed, and his eyes are looking down at them. I want more than anything to pull him into my lap and rock him back and forth like I used to do when he was younger. He had a rocking chair when he was a baby that we never took out of his room, and when he got a bit older, starting when he was three and right up until recently, when he had a bad dream he'd come looking for Mommy. Only Mommy. We'd hold hands and walk back to his room together and rock in that little old rocking chair. For him, and for me too, that chair was put together with wood, but held up by magic. I miss our moments in the dead quiet of the night. I always miss them.

"Mrs. Shepherd?" a voice interrupts, making a guess people usually make right when they hear Teddy's last name. At first the assumption is we aren't married, but once I put that Dr. prefix in front of it, I get approving nods of understanding.

"Yes?" I stand up and realize I've been holding Teddy's hand this entire time when I feel it drop. I look down, wondering if he knew all this time or just found out now, like me. I feel my heart flutter at him knowing all this time and letting me.

"I'd like to meet with you now," Mrs. Boyle says. She's a tall, thin woman, with circle glasses and flyaway hairs all around her face. Her legs sweep under her ankle length skirt, leading me into her classroom. The room's walls are filled with children's portraits and motivational posters. The whiteboard has this week's agenda on it. The theme for this week, written in all caps and underlined on the board, is SHARING. Sharing is caring, apparently.

"So is this a new thing?" I ask, scooting the chair up toward Mrs. Boyle's messy, cluttered desk. I have the urge to touch everything on it. It's all so touchable. How do these five year olds resist? "I mean the parents separating thing. Is this new?"

"Actually, no," Mrs. Boyle says. "Normally I do meet with them together. But Teddy... is a special case."

"Yeah," I smile. "He's pretty special."

Mrs. Boyle's face hardens fast. I've said something wrong, but I don't know what. All I did was compliment my child.

"As true as that is, I'm afraid I don't mean it entirely like that. Teddy is most certainly gifted. There's no doubt about that. But we've run into some... problems that I'd really like to discuss with you."

"What kind of problems?"

"Things that I've talked extensively with the principal over, and we've decided they need to be addressed. For one, have you noticed Teddy withdrawn at home?"

I swallow hard. I have no idea how to answer this. I could come clean to this kindergarten teacher. I could tell her that I have no idea if Teddy is withdrawn at home, because I just thought he hated me, and with good reason. I could tell her I've barely seen him in more than a month. Is he withdrawn? Good question, lady! You know him better than me.

"A little, yes," I nod my head solemnly. "There have been..." I trail off, trying to think of the right way to describe it. "There has been a lot of personal things happening at home. I'm sure he's just adjusting."

"Mrs. Shepherd-"

"Doctor," I correct.

"Dr. Shepherd, right. I'm sorry. Dr. Shepherd, when is the last time you've heard Teddy speak?"

This question really throws me for a loop. I'm expecting the worst after correcting her, and I'm ready to defend my life to this woman. I'm expecting my parenting skills to be called into question. Hell, I'm expecting to be dragged out of here kicking and screaming as they try to take my son away. What I didn't expect was a question about Teddy's conversational habits.

"Uhh," I try to remember my last two-sided conversation with him. "We haven't talked about the weather in awhile, why?"

"In the beginning of the year, Teddy was very outgoing and even, to an extent, I would go so far as to call him fearless. He was an excellent reader, and often to practice and commemorate his ability, during reading time he got to be a reader with or instead of a teacher. He was miles ahead of his peers. He was a very active participator in class. And then... all of a sudden, he just wasn't."

"I know, but God. Isn't he allowed to be a little quieter than normal? If he wants? Like I mentioned about the things at home-"

"Dr. Shepherd, when was the last time you heard him say a word?"

She cuts off my thought in the middle of it and I shift my jaw while I think. I remember catching him at breakfast, eating pancakes silently across from Owen. I remember sneaking into his room when I get home late, just watching him sleep until my own eyes are exhausted. But I can't remember the last time I heard his tiny voice. I can't remember the last time someone called me Mommy.

"I don't remember," I say. "It's been awhile."

Mrs. Boyle slides a card across her messy desk, the name Melissa Ortiz written on it in neat, perfect typography.

"Therapy?" I ask, reading the rest of the card. "For Teddy?"

"For all three of you. I've already talked to your husband and-"

"Can't he just be sad?" I ask. "I mean, little kids are sad sometimes. Right?"

"This isn't just a case of ordinary sadness, Dr. Shepherd. What Teddy is feeling is something much bigger than himself, and he doesn't know how to express it. Therapy can really help find the root of the problem, and in the meantime, help find other ways to communicate with him that are mentally safe and effective."

A mirage flashes through my head of Teddy and I learning sign language, of communicating through hands instead of words. I wonder if words are really all they're cracked up to be anyway. Then I imagine his thoughts rattling around in his brain like caged monkeys, tearing things apart to try and free themselves. I imagine him frustrated, trying to explain what's happening inside of him, but simply not having the tools to do so. It would be like getting directions in a foreign country. No matter how badly you wished for the words to communicate with them, they simply weren't there. I take the card and slip into my back pocket, giving Mrs. Boyle a defeated nod before I walk into the hallway where Owen and Teddy are waiting.

I think about the feeling when he was first born. The promise to give him everything, no matter what the cost is to me. I think about all I've already taken from him, and how I can now add words to the list. But most of all, I think about the fact that I really, really want a drink.

* * *

After work, I go right home. I stay home and read Teddy a story until he falls asleep. He cuddles into me, his face in the crook of my arm, and if I wasn't about to pee in his bed, I would have never gotten up. I made an extra effort tonight to get him to speak, trying to coach words out of him. More and more as the night wore on, I realized that it wasn't a coincidence. It wasn't just me forgetting our conversations. Teddy truly wasn't uttering a word.

After he's asleep, I find myself in the Honda. I turn the radio on and off again, then adjust the headlights so the high beams aren't on. I don't even know if Stop 'N Go is an all night store. It probably has closing hours, but I'm guessing it's later than 8:46 at night. I guess it's still open, and for a reason even I don't know, I find myself driving there. I tell myself she won't be there. Most likely, she won't. That will make me feel better, I tell myself that too. I don't want her to be there. I want her and that baby to be home safe. I tell myself I'm only going to to make sure. Once I know she's not there, I'll feel better, and I can move on with my life. I'll focus on Teddy. Ever since the conversation in the classroom, his voice has started to fade in my mind. I don't know if I'm just psyching myself out, but what I heard so clearly just hours ago now seems muffled and a million miles away. I don't want to think about it anymore, so I think about what I'm going to say when I pull into the Stop 'N Go. I'm sure it will be a different person working, and that relieves me. It will be much easier if it's someone new than to explain to the same cashier why I'm back. I decide that I'll tell him I lost my gloves if it's the same guy. I'm sure he wouldn't remember if I had gloves or not (I didn't) and he'll tell me he's sorry, and I'll tell him it's fine, thanks anyway, and then I'll pretend to browse around. It's a completely reasonable scenario. I don't know why I'm nervous. Maybe it's the fact that this isn't reasonable. It's completely ridiculous. I picture Owen sitting at home, now used to the fact that I'm always gone. I could be there with him. We could be talking, we could be working on it. We _should_ be talking, in fact. We should be talking about Teddy and the therapy we both separately agreed to. It's honestly amazing. We didn't even need to talk to each other to make such a major decision for our child. It's pure skill. I'm not even upset. I'm impressed with us, really.

I could turn around right now, forget about this insane obsession I have worrying about the baby-faced girl holding her stomach. Instead though, I turn on my left blinker and pull into the parking lot, my headlights leading the way.


	5. I Had A Feeling

**Jo's Point of View**

I slide my hand down into the bag of Salt and Vinegar flavored potato chips resting on the bench beside me and bring the pair that I picked up between my thumb and index finger up to my mouth. I chew them with my lips pressed neatly together and wipe the grease on my fingers off on the kneecap of my jeans, just so I don't get potato chip residue all over my paper. I pick up my pen and situate my mini notebook on top of my belly table. _Where was I? Right, so the chips were marked at $2.19..._ I scribble down the amount of the chips that I grabbed off the rack, and underneath of it, I write down the $0.89 from the peach-flavored iced tea I took out of the refrigerator. Before I add them all up, I put my pen back down on my belly and stare at my list, which is conveniently titled, "I Owe Stop 'N Go…" So far, I owe them $20.35, including the sales tax on everything I took. I owe them money for the bag of chips I sat on the floor and ate last night before I went into the bathroom and fell asleep, I owe them for the package of soap I opened and for the paper towels I used to wash up in the sink with last night. I owe them for the ice cream, for the water, for the Slim Jims and for the granola bar. I'll pay them back someday, I swear. I don't know when, but as long as I write it down, I won't forget. I really will pay them back someday.

I know it's not right to steal. It's not right to take things without paying and it's very wrong to do what I did last night. I don't feel good about what I did, I really don't. I shouldn't have taken advantage of my situation and I know better than that. But I didn't really know what else to do. The worker turned everything off. He turned off the ice makers, the coffee makers, the lottery machines and he even turned off the camera system. I was completely alone, undetected in the gas station after I got locked in last night. I was just going to hide out in the bathroom until morning and maybe get some sleep but my stomach kept growling. I thought I could ignore it, but then the hunger pains started and the cramps were unbearable so I just had to. I had no other choice but to leave the bathroom, go out into the store and take the chips. What else was I supposed to do? I know it was wrong but I couldn't have just let the baby starve. It was hungry and so was I.

Anyway, I plan to fully reimburse the Stop 'N Go when I get a job. I don't know when that's going to be but I'll do it eventually. Even if it's five years from now, I'll still do it. I wasn't really raised by anyone besides myself, but I still raised myself with enough decency and morals to know that stealing is never right and what I did last night-what I'm _doing_ -is stealing. Even if they never find out that there's a seventeen year old girl stealing chips off the racks and ice cream sandwiches out the freezers, they still deserve to get their profit from me. I asked the guy that worked the morning shift earlier where exactly I was at and he told me that I'm in Seattle. I guess if I start to think of this in terms of getting to do something that I've never done, on the bright side, at least I can say that I've seen Seattle. I haven't seen that neat little Space Needle thing that I learned about sophomore year in Geography but I think maybe eventually I will. Maybe in a little while, when my feet and ankles don't ache so bad, I'll walk and find a bus stop or something and I'll go sightseeing for a little while and job hunting. At least I can tell the baby that I saw Seattle.

I flip back to the previous page in my notebook and glance at the total written down on the page I labelled, "How Far To Go." I haven't been to a doctor in a while, but the last time I was there, the lady told me that I was 22 weeks and three days. I haven't been back since then because I don't really have the money or the insurance to go and Chris didn't want to make the hour long drive to the free clinic back in Nevada. But I bought the knock-off vitamins from the drugstore and I made myself a calendar in my notebook and if my calculations are accurate, I'm six months pregnant….or about 27 weeks. I pick up my pen and scribble out a tally mark to signify that at 8:46 tonight, another day is down and I'm another day closer to having the baby.

Again, I don't really know what I'm going to do, but I do know that I have to figure something out soon. I want to figure something out before the baby comes. I don't have insurance or money to pay for a hospital so I think I might just try and do this myself. I think I can do it. I only went up to eleventh grade in health class, but I paid attention and I aced it. I know high school health class is far from enough education to have a baby yourself but I like to think that being a little bit knowledgeable on the subject. Maybe when I get up to go find the bus station I'll venture to a library and read up about home births. I just can't have the baby at a hospital. I don't know what they would do if I did and found out that I couldn't pay. Would they call someone to come take the baby? Like CPS or something? Like...like when you're at a restaurant and your bill is much more expensive than you ever thought and you can't pay...how they make you wash the dishes? Is it like that? Are they going to call someone to take the baby when they realize that I can't pay? I don't know. All I know is that I can't have the baby at a hospital that I can't pay for. How hard can doing it myself be? Women all over the world do it, right?

Sighing, I flip back to the page that I use for calculating all the money I owe the gas station. I reach over again and grab the last two potato chips out of the bag. Just as I bring them up to my mouth for consumption, a small, skinny-looking little pigeon lands about five feet in front of me. At first, I turn my nose up at it. It's an ugly looking thing, it really is. It's small, gray, with a head much too tiny for it's body. It looks skinny, unlike any other bird I've ever laid my eyes on. It walks its waddle away from me and even as it's walking, I can see that it's really small. It looks as if it'd topple over if a stiff wind came. I realize that I'm looking at this bird the same way people look at me when they look at my face and then at my belly and realize that I'm way too young to be carrying around such a burden.

My nose untunes as my mind begins to wander off in a different direction. I wonder the pigeon has a family. I wonder if it's a boy or if it's a girl. If it's a boy, it probably gets made fun of by the other birds for being so small and lanky. If it's a girl, she's probably looking for her little birdies. I wonder if she has a boyfriend. I wonder if her boyfriend's a drug dealer, if he abandoned her in a place she knows nothing about, if he left her stranded and alone, ready to lay her eggs very shortly. I wonder if she was loved or if she was like me. I wonder if she had anyone that would care if she fell off the face of the Earth. I wonder if she's like me and wouldn't mind falling off the face of the earth. I wonder if she too only keeps it together because she has people counting on her to be okay. I just wonder.

Instead of putting the remaining two chips into my mouth like I originally planned to, I toss them on the ground and run my greasy fingers through the lengths of my knotted, matted, brunette hair. I watch as the pigeon waddles over to the chips, tilts it head, pecks at them, scoops them both up in his or her beak and flies away.

"You're welcome," I sigh and look down.

I move to reach in my pocket and grab my cell phone so I can check and see what time it is but before I can get to it, from the corner of my eye, I pair of extra bright headlights turn into the parking lot and for some idiotic reason, I catch myself hoping that it's Chris again. Hoping that he only went to go get the car fixed after all, hoping that he figured I'd still be here waiting for him, hoping that he found it within his heart to come right back and get me. Just like yesterday, my heart sinks when I find that it's not a Grand Am once again. Instead, it's a white Honda CRV. The car pulls into a parking spot and the lights turn off.

When the door opens, I see it's the same woman from earlier. It's the woman who asked me this morning if I was waiting in line. I never thought I'd see her again, but here she is. Funny that way, how you remember the people who say the least the most. Maybe I just remember her because she's the only person that spoke a word to me all day, the only person that didn't look at me like I was dirt at the bottom of her shoe. Her clothes are changed, but she has the same look on her face, the kind that always looks a little bit lost no matter where you are. I can tell she sees me, and was maybe even looking for me, because she walks straight to me with no detour. She doesn't say anything for a few moments, just stands in front of me like she's searching for the right words.

"You're still here," she says. "It's so late."

For a brief moment, I let my mind take a spin. I want to find the right words to say, words that won't make me seem stupid. But honestly, I can't even believe she remembers me. I think I'm a forgettable face, but then I remember, it's what's under my shirt that most people can't forget.

"Y-yeah, I...it's just a nice night tonight." I make my voice all fake-polite and cheery. "I kind of like to sit out here and think."

She nods and helps herself to the seat next to me, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. She looks out at the sky when she talks, and I get the feeling I'm more of a sounding board than anything.

"You live around here?"

I want to lie to her. I want to open my mouth and say, _yeah, just around the corner. My boyfriend's inside getting me pickles and lunch meat, the kind I've been craving. He's such a good man, that boyfriend of mine. Always taking care of me and my weird little cravings._ But I don't. I guess my brain just isn't wired to lie. Maybe I'm just wired to always do the right thing. I nod my head, telling her "yes" and attempting to go through with the lie but I just sigh.

"Not exactly," I sheepishly admit, along with a shake of my head. This makes her turn towards me, noticing the discomfort in my partial truth after my casual nod. I should have just kept it to a nod.

"Not exactly?" she asks. "Don't tell me you travel across the country for the local Stop 'N Go. I know it's a big tourist attraction and all, but there's got to be something similar to it wherever you live."

I don't know if she was trying to be funny, but this makes me laugh anyway. I always have thought that those were the best kinds of people. The people that are funny without even trying, I mean. Chris used to be like that. I lick my lips and swallow my laugh so I can continue on with the conversation though.

"I'm just passing through, I guess you can say." For the first time in the two or three minutes that this woman's been sitting next to me, I feel comfortable enough to lift my head and look at her. When our eyes meet, I notice hers for the first time. I don't know this woman at all, but for a few moments when I look into her eyes, it feels like I do. It feels like I've known her forever, actually. She's exhausted, I can feel it in my whole body. Not the kind of tired when you need a warm bed and a few good hours of sleep, no, the kind of exhaustion that sits on your shoulders and walks around with you all day, whispering in your ear that there's no point in doing anything else and to just give up already. I wonder if her voice sounds the same as mine. For a few moments, I see a brokenness beyond her eyes, and then she looks away, and she's back to the kind stranger, the person that was willing to step aside to let me go in front of her.

"Ah," she says, nodding her head. "You're a wanderer," she stops and her eyes flicker to my stomach. I of course know what she's thinking. "Well, Wanderer. Do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you gas station girl in my head?"

"Josephine," I take my eyes away from her once I tell her my name. "But uh…'Gas Station Girl' is probably a step up from that." This makes her tilt her head back and laugh. Since the air is now comfortable and easy again, I pick my head back up and tuck my hair behind my ears so she can see me better. I need a haircut pretty badly but if I don't even have enough money for my copayment when I go to the doctor's to check on the baby, what makes anyone think I have enough to waste on a haircut? I'll just sweep it back so she has a better look at my face anyway.

"Josephine is a wonderful name. It sounds elegant."

"Okay," I sit up on the bench, holding my belly of course. I crane my neck around and pretend to be looking for something. "Where are the cameras and when is the crew gonna jump out from behind the trees telling me I've been punk'd, because I'm about 99.9% certain that you don't mean that."

"You're kind of hard on yourself," she notices. The way she's looking at me feels like I'm being studied. "You only get one name, you know. You might as well embrace it."

Subtly, I raise my eyebrows and replay that sentence back in my mind. _You only get one name, you know. You might as well embrace it._ Well, I won't make the baby's name too hard to embrace. I don't know what it is yet since I haven't been to the doctors in a while, but I've been thinking of a few for both boys and girls. I haven't decided on one just yet and I wanted to run the suggestions by Chris before I did. Anyway, I promise I won't make the baby's name too hard to embrace. It won't be anything like Josephine. I turn my head and look at the woman, finally giving her a subtle, yet defined smile. I can't imagine why in the world she'd want to sit by me. I'm just a girl sitting barefoot at a gas station with dirty, overgrown hair, smelly breath (I drew the line last night at stealing toothpaste but I think I might cave) and dirty clothes. Why would she want to sit next to me? I don't know. But I'm glad she did.

"So…" I speak up again, desperate to keep our conversation flowing. "What's the name you had to embrace?"

"Well I had to change my name after my parents named me Josephine," she jokes. For the second time in five minutes, she makes me genuinely smile, which isn't something many people can do anymore. She's so effortlessly funny. "So now my friends call me Amelia."

"Ehh, Amelia," I turn my nose up and make a disgusted look. "That's a rough moniker too." She laughs when I turn up my nose and make the disgusted face. The laugh that comes out of her is hardly a laugh at all, it's more of a gasp in surprise. Probably surprise that I can keep up with her quips. Either way, I can tell that the smile on her face is genuine. It's a connection...kind of strange but powerful anyway. "I guess us girls with rough names gotta stick together," I mumble, closing off the playful end of our conversation. "But Amelia's actually a pretty name...and I'm not punking you...and you can call me 'Jo'...since Josephine's a mouthful."

"Well, Jo, I appreciate that," she grins.

The only thing I offer her after this is a smile. I just don't know what else to say. I'm sure I could find more things to talk to her about. I could ask her if her hair is naturally that dark and if her eyes are naturally that blue. I could ask her where she got her shoes and pretend like I have the money to go buy my own. I could say a bunch of things to her, but I think my best bet is to fold my hands over my table belly and look straight ahead. It's only silent between us for about 45 seconds before I notice that it's not at all awkward. Most of the time, when you've spent a decent amount of time talking to someone and exchanging names and playful banter with a person and suddenly go silent, it's awkward. But not now. With Amelia, the silence couldn't be more comfortable and gratifying and that's when I realize that I genuinely like her. I like the people that don't feel the overwhelming need to fill silence with chatter and noise. I like the people that can appreciate the silence and accept it just for what it is: silence. Call me crazy, but I always thought that was a level of maturity and understanding between two people. It doesn't take much effort and ability to make mindless, meaningless conversation with a stranger but when you can sit with that stranger and not feel the need to speak every little thing that comes to your mind, that's a totally different level of understanding.

I could sit here for hours, listening to the wind knocking the gas price sign against the side of the building, the flit-flutter of the wings of insects flapping. I could sit here for forever, just enjoying her company. I might not ever see her again after tonight, but I'll never forget her. She'll always be burned in the back of my mind, I can promise you that. When she leaves here tonight, I might not ever see her again and I might not ever have the opportunity to be more than the pregnant girl she made small-talk with, so for that reason, I'd be content with sitting here for hours. I really, truly would be. But I have to make it into the bathroom by at least 10:23 tonight in order to be successfully locked in again and I imagine she has other obligations too. I clear my throat and prepare to be the one to break the silence.

"Don't you think you should probably pump that gas you came here for?" I ask her, my voice not reaching any higher than a decibel above a whisper.

"Probably," she agrees. "But I really can't. I mean I've never tried to pump on a full tank, but I don't think it will let me."

I wrinkle my brow. "...So did you just come here for a snack or something?" She doesn't reply to me. Instead, she looks down at her hands, which are resting in her lap, and she picks at a hangnail. "So why'd you...come here in the middle of the night? If you weren't gonna buy anything?"

She sighs and looks up at me. I can almost see the words spinning in her mind before she actually says anything.

"I think..." she says, and she pauses like she's really taking the time to think it out. "I think maybe the same reason you were here when I showed up. We end up where we're supposed to be."

I sit back and think about this for a moment. I get what she's saying. I totally and completely understand what she's going for and to a certain extent, I even think that she's right. I've always been the kind of person to think that everything happens for a reason. Now, I'm not sure what the reason behind me being left pregnant, alone and stranded at a gas station is...I guess I'm somewhat wrong about everything happening for a reason. But nevertheless, I understand what Amelia is trying to say. That still doesn't tell me why she made the conscious decision to get in her car and come here with no intentions of buying anything.

"You're probably right," I say. "But that still doesn't tell me what in the world made you want to leave your house and come to this old place when you didn't need anything from it."

"When I saw you earlier," she finally admits. "You were just standing there. You looked so beaten down, and I'm sure some psychological analysis would say I see myself in you, but honestly, I just wanted to know if you were okay. I had a feeling you'd still be here."

Again, I am silent. I don't have anything else to say, but unlike last time, I feel like I should. I should say something. But how do you tell a perfect stranger that you're the furthest thing from okay? That your drug dealing boyfriend let you out to use the bathroom because your baby was pushing against your bladder and when you came out, he was gone? How do you tell a perfect stranger that you're perfectly alone? That you don't know what else to do? That your life is in shambles and you can't even afford to buy a bag of chips to feed your baby?

"I'll always be here," I promise her that and I immediately regret it. For at least the next two days, yeah, I'll be here. But after that? I don't know where I'll be. I'd like to say that I'll be on the first bus to Canada so I can find Chris again but how can I say for sure? I shouldn't have promised her that. I shouldn't have lied. "It's not like I have many other options, I mean."

She nods like she's expecting the answer I give her, then she pulls a neat, clean business card from her back pocket. When she hands it to me, I see the name Dr. Amelia Shepherd.

"Give me a call if you ever want to check up on that baby," she says. "Don't worry about insurance or money. We don't even have to admit you as a patient. Just a quick check-up. If you find that you for some reason need it."

My fingers brush across the raised-up letters on the smooth white paper and I really have to actively convince myself not to cry. I stare at it. She's a doctor. She'll check on the baby for free. She'd do that for me? I think maybe I should save it. You know, like a "Get Out of Jail Free" card. I should save it for when I really need it, since I only get one. I should save it for when I'm further along...shouldn't I?

"I don't...have a phone? So can I um...schedule it now? I would like to schedule it for maybe whenever I'm a little...more...you know," I stumble over my words, not wanting to utter the "p" word aloud. "But I'm not…" I shake my head. "I don't know how far I am… I think maybe six months but I haven't been to the um...the doctor in a while."

"How about tomorrow?" she asks. "Can you get to Grey Sloan Memorial? It's just up this street, then a right. You'll see signs," she starts and I immediately open up my notebook. I start jotting down everything she's saying. "It's probably a twenty minute walk from here. We'll see how far along you are and even the gender if you want. Then we'll schedule more appointments from there. All the way until delivery, if you need it. Can you get there tomorrow at 2?"

"Yes ma'am," I nod my head and jot down "2:00". She said we'll schedule more appointments but I really don't have insurance. I can't pay for that. "...Will the hospital take my baby? Are they gonna call someone to take my baby?"

"What?" She's genuinely startled by my question. "Why would they do that?"

"Because I can't pay...it's like...like when you're at a diner and you can't pay and they make you wash the dishes? I can't pay. I don't have insurance...how are they gonna make me pay?"

"Don't worry about paying. This isn't going to be billed. All you have to do is take care of yourself and your baby, okay? Trust me, no one is going to try and take away your baby. It's going to be off the record. Just show up tomorrow at 2."

I nod my head again. "Tomorrow at 2:00...I'll be there," I close my notebook. "...Will you be there? Who am I supposed to...will I just ask for you?"

Amelia furrows her brows as she thinks about it.

"Just walk in the main doors. I'll be there, so you don't have to ask for anyone."

I nod again, obediently this time. I don't know much about the medical field and healthcare but I'm fairly certain that she's doing something that's against the rules just to help me out. The least I can do is be obedient, listen to her and follow the rules.

"Tomorrow, G-Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital? At 2:00, right? You said it's only u-uh...up the street, make a left, look for signs. About a twenty minute walk from here. You'll be there?"

"Tomorrow. Grey Sloan Memorial. Go up this street and make a right, not a left. Once you do, you'll see blue hospital signs pointing you in the direction. It's going to be on your right there too. It's a big hospital, you won't miss it. I'll be there by the front doors, I'll even wait outside so you'll know when you see me. I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

"Yes," I nod my head.


	6. IOU

**A/N:** So this is the chapter where the story really starts to pick up. Lots of important things happen in this chapter, and one small little detail on Jo's part that will be built upon later. I hope you guys enjoy this, and if you're reading, leave me some good reviews to let me know what you think :)

* * *

 **Amelia's Point of View**

I wake up before I open my eyes. With them still shut, I raise my arms over my head and stretch, jerking back and sitting up when I feel myself hit something on the pillow opposite of me. Owen is still asleep next to me, or at least, he was until I just knocked him on the head. I sit up and assess the situation. The clock next to my bed says it's 9:23 in the morning. No alarm has gone off, like the usual one that beeps right next to my ear and lets me slip out in the dark, and I realize I must have forgot to set it last night after I came home from the gas station. I woke up by the natural sunlight streaming in through the cracks between the blinds. The entire bed was warm and comfortable where the sunlight hit it, and for a few moments, I was too relaxed to even care that I missed my alarm.

"Are you okay?" Owen sits up and blinks at me, as if he's trying to see if I'm really here. He looks lonely, I realize. I feel horrible for it. I tried to isolate myself, and in the process, I isolated the person I wanted to hurt least. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong. I just slept in." I try to keep this a casual conversation. I don't want him to know it was an accident that I'm here, that I just forgot to set the stupid thing on my phone. "What time do you have to be in?"  
"I took the morning off. They're finishing parent-teacher conferences today so Teddy doesn't have school. I was going to hang out with him and just drop him off at the daycare for a half day after lunch."

"I can take him," I suggest immediately.

"You don't have surgeries?"

I forgot about surgeries. I truly forgot that I had responsibilities I couldn't push aside, and now I'm embarrassed for even offering. For forgetting long enough to offer. Of course I have surgeries. There's no way I can take him. What kind of idiot forgets you have to work when you go to work?

"My first surgery isn't until four-thirty. I can take him until then." As soon as I say the words, I want to hit myself. I really could in that moment if it wouldn't make Owen even more confused. As soon as I make the offer, I remember the two o'clock appointment I made with Jo. But I'm too embarrassed to correct myself again, so for the first time, I actually hope Owen is against it. I've been fighting him for months on it, and of course the first time I'd want him to stand his ground is the time when he caves.

"I think he would really like that," he nods, then he unfolds the blanket off himself and gets out of bed. I think of possible solutions to my problem. I could tell Owen that I was wrong, that I have a two o'clock appointment. But then he's going to see I don't, because he's the stupid Chief, and he'll know when his surgeons are actually booked or not. It doesn't even have to do with the fact that I'm his wife. And then I'll have to explain Jo, the gas station girl that can't pay and is afraid of her baby being taken away. She might not even show up. For her to show up really is asking a lot, especially if she thinks someone at the hospital is going to take away her baby. By asking her to come, I'm asking her to trust me. That's a lot to ask of someone you've only had one conversation with. She probably won't even show up, and so if she doesn't, I don't want to bring it up with Owen. If she does, then we'll make more appointments and I'll talk to him about it. So telling him I have an appointment is out. My next option is to drop Teddy off before two without telling Owen. I could say I had an emergency appointment. It's not like Teddy will tattle on me and tell Owen. He's not talking. But that feels wrong. After fighting so hard for my baby back, I don't want to just drop him off when I finally get a few hours with him. So that option is no good. My last option is if Jo shows up. If she does, and we have the appointment, I can bring Teddy along with me. I'll tell him he gets to see what doctors do, and hopefully, his five year old wonder brain will think it's amazing and cool and love it. It might make Jo uncomfortable to have someone else in the room though. I should be aware of that. But I can have Teddy face the wall if she doesn't want him to look at her stomach. I don't want him in the hallway, I don't want him out of my sight for a minute, but I can just have him turn around. I think Jo will be okay with it, since I'm offering her a free doctor's appointment. She doesn't seem like the type to pitch fits. I don't know her that well though, but what I feel from her is that she's pretty easy-going. A kid that's down on her luck and could use a hand before she gets back to standing on her own again. But that's all just a feeling. I really don't know. I'm a little worried about bringing him because I don't know. I don't know if she'll be angry or hormonal, and if she starts yelling or exclaiming that she doesn't want him there, it will probably devastate him. He'll take it personal. He's already not talking, so I don't know what else I can take away from him. Maybe he'll stop smiling. I try to imagine his small, helpless face, the way his smile stretches across his cheeks to show his perfectly aligned little baby teeth. That smile is the best thing in the entire world. I would do anything for it. It's just that these days... it seems like there's nothing I can do.

Owen would kill me. I know he would. He would kill me if he knew I was taking our son into a room with a perfect stranger. It's not that Jo would be violent. I know she wouldn't, and even if someone did try something like that, we're in a hospital in broad daylight. There are a million security checks after the shooting years ago, and lunging or physical violence wouldn't work. I could protect Teddy. It's the emotional aspect. It's the instability of not knowing what she's going to think or say. But I trust her. I tell myself I trust her because it's easier to believe that than to believe that I'm bringing my son into a room with someone I don't know anything about, because I'm too embarrassed to admit to Owen I made a mistake and too selfish to give up my time with him.

I get up myself, stretching my legs straight out before I put my feet on the ground and stand up. Owen is fishing through the dresser, making a mess of his folded shirts. I walk over to him and put my hand on his arm, gently enough not to startle him. He's too focused on his task to notice anyway.

"I can't find my blue tie," he explains, pulling another shirt out of the drawer. This time he tosses it on the floor. His hands are full and his shoulders are covered, so the floor is the only option left. His blue tie is his favorite, because it's my favorite. Before our first official date, we were in his room. I had stayed the night before and we both had the day off, and it was one of the first mornings I spent with him. Normally when we met up at night, I slipped out as soon as we finished. It's not that I didn't want to spend nights with him. I just never thought we were at that point, I wasn't sure if I was ready to be at the point. We were comfortable as friends with benefits. But that night I was exhausted, and when I tried to slide out of the bed, he groaned and put his hand over me to stop me from going. He wasn't even awake, maybe halfway if anything, and that made it even better. When we woke up the next morning, we both agreed we wanted to go on a "real" date. Well, I agreed. He had asked me before and I brushed him off. But finally I agreed. I told him it couldn't be too cheesy though. I wanted it to be nice if we were going to do it. I told him that he had to wear a blue tie, because it made the blue in his eyes stand out more. He said that I couldn't dress him and besides, he didn't even own a blue tie. I sighed and told him grey would do, more interested in what we were about to do again than what we were going to do later fully clothed and in a stuffy, expensive restaurant. But when I showed up at his door later that night, ready for our first official date, he was dressed in a tux with a sky blue silk tie. I told him I thought he didn't have one. He reminded me that stores exist. I think I knew then that I could spend my life with him. I wasn't sure if I would then, but I knew that I could. And that he would make me happy if I did.

"Did you check downstairs?" I ask. "In the laundry room?"

"No," he answers, freezing in the middle of his manhunt. The idea seems to strike him. "I didn't."

"I know," I say, pretending like I'm holding off applause. "You may be wondering what a genius like me is doing wasting my life as a measly neurosurgeon, but I assure you, it's very rewarding work."

"Thank you," he says, and he kisses my cheek as he brushes past me. I have the urge to follow him. As soon as he's out of the room, I miss him. But that would be ridiculous. I pick up the clothes off the floor and put them on top of the open drawer, deciding to let Owen refold his own clothes later.

When I walk into the hallway, I can hear Owen at the bottom of stairs, banking a left to get to our laundry room. I decide to walk to Teddy's room. I knock with just my knuckles before I open it, even though I'll get no response. Of course. Teddy is sitting on the edge of his bed in a matching shirt and pant pajama set. They're white with tiny trucks all over them, and navy blue cuffs at the end of the sleeves and pant legs. His bare feet are crossed again at the ankles, swinging back and forth, and he's holding an unsolved Rubik's Cube in his hands. Owen gave it to him for his fifth birthday nearly eight months ago and he still hasn't been able to solve it, but he hasn't given up on it yet. He's always staring at that little thing, concentrating so hard on getting all the colors to match up. I walk up to him and kneel in front of him, putting my hands on his knees. This gesture gets him to look up at me.

"Hey Bear," I smile, but he keeps his blank stare, as if he's trying to figure out what I want. It makes sense. He's not used to me being here. "You been up for a while?" He shakes his head, and I see the messy bedhead he has in the back from the way he slept. Teddy is a considerate kid, and he knows about quiet time. He knows quiet time well. It's in the morning and during nap time. He doesn't have to sleep, but he has to play quietly. Usually he sleeps. Lately when he doesn't, he's working on that rubik's cube. "You feel like some pancakes?" I ask, and he nods his head. For some reason, this gives me an extra pang of missing his voice. I want to hear him yell "Yes! Pancakes, pees!" and I wonder if that excitement is still inside of him somewhere. I wonder if his innocence is still rattling around in that little body, bursting to come out, or if it's somewhere far, far away. Wherever his voice is. "You want to hang out with Mommy today at the hospital?"

This earns me a small smile. He's testing me, waiting for me to take it back. He doesn't trust me. Instead I just wait for him to answer. When he realizes I'm not kidding, his smile broadens and he nods fervently. I can't help but smile back. I love those little perfect baby teeth.

With both of us still in our pajamas, we meet Owen in the kitchen. He's tying his blue tie around his neck while simultaneously flipping pancakes over the stove. I lift Teddy up to sit at the counter and catch Owen smiling at us, and I feel perfect. For that brief moment, it felt like my family again.

"Important meeting today?" I ask Owen, eyeing his special tie.

"Yeah," he sighs. "About budgeting. Probably going to spend most of my day locked up in an office."

"Well," I say, trying to keep my voice light-hearted. I can feel Teddy's eyes on me, watching every single thing I say and do. "At least we have the morning."

* * *

 **Jo's Point of View**

When I find the dirty white t-shirt that I spent the last five minutes on my knees digging through my duffle bag for, I lay it down on the floor in front of the toilet and bend down to take my socks off my horribly swollen feet. I roll my socks up, tuck them away in my duffle and turn around quickly just to glance at the door to make sure it's locked while I'm in here. It is, so I turn back around and use my teeth to bite open the package of soap I took off the shelf before the store opened this morning. I turn the faucet on and stick the bar of soap underneath the running stream of water, rubbing it between my hands to lather it up. I unfold the paper towel I ripped off just moments ago and wet it too, so I can make some kind of washcloth. I keep my head down while I wash myself though. I just don't want to have to look at myself in the mirror while I wash myself up in the dirty, rusty bathroom sink of a gas station. I guess washing up here is better than consistently being dirty but I don't think I'll feel much clean after this anyway.

I wash underneath my arms real good so they don't smell, I wash both my privates and because it seems to be the thing that's going to get the most attention today, I pick up the bar of soap and rub it along my belly. Maybe this is weird, but in a sense, I kind of feel like I'm giving the baby a bath while I do this. So I rub the soap along my stomach with gentleness. Once I'm done, I bend down and pick up the shirt I was standing on. I dry myself off with it, fold the bar of soap up inside of it, toss away my paper towel washcloth and repack my bag. I think I'm down to my last pair of clean underwear and usually, I'd just go ahead and put on the same pair I wore yesterday. But I'm going to see a doctor today and I don't want them to think that I'm dirty. I mean yeah, I am dirty, but I'm not a dirty person by choice. So I step into my clean pair of panties, I strap a bra around my chest and put on the only articles of clean clothing I have left. I step into a pair of jeans that don't button around my waist and a long sleeved pink sweater. I wish I had some way to wash my hair in this bathroom but I don't, so I just use the hairbrush that I swiped off the shelf. I put my hair in a neat ponytail and slip my feet into the only pair of shoes that I own, which just so happen to be a pair of black flip-flop sandals.

Before I finish up and leave the bathroom, I open up my notebook and scribble down the $1.13 that I owe them for the soap and the $2.00 the hairbrush cost. I also ate a bag of Doritos for breakfast, so I should probably put that on there too. I close the notebook, slip it into my bag and look at the clock that's conveniently hanging above the toilet. I should make it to that hospital in time if I start walking now. I sling my bag over my shoulder, turn off the light and quietly slip out of the bathroom unnoticed. It kind of shames me how good I've gotten at slipping in and out of the bathroom without being noticed. It's only been two days and it's already somewhat of a routine to me. I lock myself in the bathroom at 10:23 every night and wait until the hum of the coffee makers stop. When I don't hear them humming anymore, I know that it's safe to come out. Then I usually scrounge around for something to eat and I eat something, drink something, then lock myself back in the bathroom and go to sleep until I hear the sound of the coffee machines hum again. The guy that works the morning shifts has to go outside and check the ice freezers and turn the pumps on every morning, so whenever he goes outside, I hurry up and sneak out the back. It's actually pretty easy but it's not something I'm proud of. I'm going to have to do something about this eventually though, because I don't think a gas station/convenience store bathroom is an appropriate place to raise a newborn baby.

I glance at the clock again, nod my head for my own personal reasons and leave out through the front door. For a moment, I actually feel pretty bare without having my cell phone in my pocket. It's just something I usually have on me and I've always felt bare without it. But in the back of my mind, I know it's not a necessity anymore. The only person that would ever want to get in touch with me is Chris, for one. And for two, I'm pretty sure he turned it off. I tried calling him again yesterday, a few hours after I made the initial call to him after he left me, and it told me that my phone was unavailable to make calls. I still don't want to believe that he left me on purpose but it's starting to become a bit clear to me that he actually might have. I mean, you don't turn someone's cell phone service off after leaving them stranded unless you really want to get rid of them, right? I guess so.

It's a pretty cool, windy day outside today but for the most part, it's actually pretty nice. It's not bad walking weather, I suppose. _Okay, so up the street, make a right. You'll see signs._ I adjust my duffle on my shoulder and begin the journey up the street so I can, for the first time since I was 22 weeks, go to my appointment.

* * *

 **Amelia's Point of View**

A little after lunch, Owen, Teddy, and I ride by the Stop 'N Go on our way to the hospital. I wonder if Jo is still there. If she is, she's not outside. I think it's possible she's run away. Maybe I came on too strong and she got a bad case of the nerves, and she ran. Or maybe she's inside. _Or maybe she's home._ The thought sounds like someone else's voice in my head, like I didn't really think it, but someone put it in my head and forced me to consider the possibility. The logical possibility.

The mood in the car is light and easy after our morning together, it's better than it's been in a long time. Owen is singing along to the radio to make Teddy laugh, and it's working beautifully. They're not words, but hearing any sound out of his throat feels like a gift. Owen is singing the wrong words so confidently that even I can't help but laugh. I feel a somberness passing it, but a few minutes after we pass the gas station I force myself to come back to the car. Owen turns the radio knob so the sound is playing louder and grins in the rearview mirror.

"This one is Teddy's favorite, right buddy?" he asks, turning it up another notch. It's not the radio at all, I realize, but a CD Owen burned just before the accident with all of Teddy's favorite songs. The car starts playing _she'll be coming around the mountain when she comes, when she comes! She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes!_

I can't help myself. I join in with Owen, and by the time we pull into the hospital parking lot we're both belting out lyrics just to keep the ribbon of laughter falling out of Teddy's mouth, a sound he no longer even tried to suppress. When we park, my cheeks ache because I've been smiling the entire time. It's the best kind of ache, though. I help Teddy out of his booster seat and we say goodbye to Owen and I check my watch. It's 1:33. Instead of going in, Teddy and I walk across the entire hospital building. We walk slowly, because I have time to kill, and I always think there's something a little wonderful in watching a kid explore the world so fully. Teddy stops at just about everything. He plucks a big, thick buttercup from the ground and hands it to me and I hold onto to it for the rest of the walk. I've never been so desperate to know what's going on in that little head.

When we get back to the front door, it's 1:54. Teddy and I sit on a bench and I give him the Rubik's Cube out of my bag. He lights up when he sees that I brought it, and I let him work on it while I think about Jo. Even though it's illogical, I feel like I know Jo. I really, somewhere in my soul, feel like she'll show up. She seemed grateful when I offered it. But the minutes pass, and when it's 2:10, Teddy tugs at my shirt. He wants to go in. I told him he'd get to see me being a doctor, and sitting on a bench outside the hospital is not doctoring. I tell myself I'll give her a few more minutes. I tell myself I'll go in at 2:20 if she's not here. I want Teddy to get to see some of the doctoring he was promised before I have to drop him off.

 _C'mon Jo_ , I think. _Show up._

I look at Teddy fiddling with the cube. He's starting to get frustrated, and even though I'm two minutes earlier than my own assigned deadline, I feel bad enough keeping Teddy waiting, so I stand up to go. When I do, I see the figure of a woman. Without her baby face, she looks much older. She walks almost like an elderly woman, like she's been crippled. She's lopsided from the weight of a duffel bag on her shoulder, but as soon as she comes into focus, I see Jo. Her face is the same one from the gas station, although maybe even a little happier than I remember her. She looks almost excited. I'm so relieved to see her, I don't even think about it when I smile. I turn when Teddy tugs on my shirt, not recognizing the person approaching us.

"Jo, I'm glad you came!" I say a little too enthusiastically. "This is my son, Teddy. He had the day off from school so he wanted to tag along. I hope you don't mind." I turn to him and move my body so he can't hide behind it anymore. "Teddy, this is Jo. She's a friend. And a patient, so you're gonna see Mommy be a doctor." A smile spreads across his face, and I can tell this has made him like Jo already. He lifts one hand up and waves at her.

"Hi Amelia," she smiles at me, the smile holding a look of relief. Her eyes leave mine and flicker down to my side. "Hi Teddy," she greets him too. When her voice comes out this time, it mirrors that of a child and it isn't until then that it occurs to me that she is indeed, a child. It's easy to forget when you talk to her.

"He's shy," I explain, my new go-to lie to excuse his silence. It's much easier than explaining how I screwed my child up and made him a mute before his sixth birthday. That's usually a conversation killer. "Let's go in. I'm going to tell people you're my niece if anyone asks, alright? So don't be startled."

She nods her head with the same obedience she displayed at the gas station last night and scoots the straps on her orange bag up on her shoulder. "I'm sorry I'm late," she starts, following Teddy and me up the pathway. "I'm sorry if I um...inconvenienced you at all. I kind of forgot where I was going for a minute and then I really had to use the bathroom so I had to stop and duck behind a tree and then I needed to sit down for a minute because my stupid swollen ankles and...I'm ranting," she sucks her teeth. "I'm just sorry I'm late. I won't be late again."

I nod while she talks, only half-listening. I heard an apology about being late, but it really doesn't matter. I'm still glad she showed up. Now I have to get her a bed. I know where I'm going to take her. I know exactly what hallway. It's a little cooler than the rest of the hospital because it's a little set off, and only really used when we're swamped and low on beds. I just have to get her there without Owen or anyone that knows us seeing. I have to get the equipment to her room without anyone seeing, but that will be easier. I'll just say I have a pregnant patient I need to check on before surgery. I'm thinking about the supplies I can get for her without anyone noticing. Definitely a good, hot meal from the cafeteria. Wherever she's planning to go after this appointment, I'm sure a meal won't hurt. I look back and see her trailing me, trying to keep up with my pace. I put Teddy down instead of carrying him, deciding that a five year old will probably keep pace with someone roughly six months pregnant.

"I need you to do me a favor, okay?" I say, turning to Jo as we wait for the elevators.

"Okay," her meek little voice agrees.

"If you hear me run into someone named Owen, I'll say his name, I need you to keep walking like we're not together. He's my husband... and also the Chief of Surgery. And I don't want him finding out just yet. Will you do that for me?"

"You have a husband?" Her eyebrows raise and the tone of her voice heightens, completely bypassing the question I just asked. She notices the preoccupied look on my face and realizes her mistake. "Right, walk like I'm not with you if you come across someone named Owen...got it." She nods once, letting me know that she understands.

"Okay, good," I say, taking Teddy's hand again as we walk into the elevator. "And I don't know if I should be offended you were so surprised."

"No, I just…" She shakes her head and stumbles along her words, as if her brain is moving faster than her mouth is. "I...didn't...you just didn't mention it last night and...I mean I know you didn't have to, but I just thought you...would have." She tucks her hair behind her ear and gears her head down towards the floor. "You didn't really mention a kid last night either though," she mumbles.

"Sorry," I mutter, clutching Teddy's hand a little tighter. "Next time I'll bring the family photo album for you. I don't want you to miss out on my Great Aunt Judy." She purses her lips together to muffle her laughter but it's no use. Her laugh slips through anyway and even that has hints of childishness to it. I smile, thinking that this girl deserves something to laugh about. When the doors open on floor four, I see tons of familiar faces and I try to duck through all of them. I nod towards Jo to signal her to follow me and she does, keeping her head down. I stop by linens and grab a gown and socks. They don't ask why.

The room I set her up in is pretty chilly, but if I turn the heat up, someone will realize there's a person in here. I decide to get some blankets and food before I start the appointment, because that way she can't decline them and leave.

"Is it okay if I put this down? And take these off?" She motions to both her duffle bag and her sandals respectively. I nod.

"Change into this," I tell her, handing her the folded up gown and rolled up socks on top of it. "Take your time. You can use the shower if you want. I'm going to check on one of my pre-ops and I'll be back with the ultrasound machine."

"There's a shower…" she whispers to herself, but loud enough so that I could hear it.

"Take your time," I remind her. I take Teddy's hand again and lead him out, leaving Jo alone in her room. I decide to really give her some time. I find my favorite nurse just down the hallway, one of the only ones I trust, and I tell her to bring whatever the meal of the day is to Jo's room with a few extra blankets. She doesn't ask questions. I always appreciate that.

* * *

 **Jo's Point of View**

When the door closes behind Amelia, it really dawns on me that I'm actually...alone. I'm used to being alone, I really am. But the notion that I'm alone right now in this moment is a little unnerving. I don't know why though. I can't quite put my finger on it. I swing my feet as I sit on the edge of the bed she went out of her way to get for me. My fingertips brush along the soft, white cottony fabric of the blanket that's on the bed and for a moment, I feel the overwhelming urge to close my eyes. Just feeling the softness of the fabric on my fingers makes me sleepy. My head leisurely falls forward and my eyes close, but I won't allow myself to fall asleep. Instead, I think about what it'd be like to sleep in one of these. For the last two nights, all I've known is putting my head against a cold tiled wall with my back propped against that same wall. I haven't had blankets. I haven't had a pillow, I haven't had a cushion. It would be marvelous to sleep on something like this, even if it's only for a little while.

I know that if I allow myself to sit on this bed for any while longer, I'll end up falling asleep and I don't want to do that, especially when Amelia went out of her way to do this for me and I've already spit in her face by being late. So I brace my hand against my belly and slide down off the table. I have to clench my teeth together to bear with the pain in my ankles, but when I think about the actual shower that I'm going to take, it makes it all worth it. For a moment, I thought about declining the shower. I didn't finish high school and I don't have my GED, but that doesn't mean that I'm stupid. I'm not stupid and I know that regular prenatal check-ups don't come with showers added. I already feel bad enough taking from Amelia when she's clearly doing something against the rules. I don't want to take further advantage of the situation by taking a shower too. But I really do need to bathe. I haven't since Chris and I left Nevada.

I walk through a small door off in the corner and find the light switch. When the lights flicker on, I feel my eyeballs widen. I stand by the door and admire the spaciousness of the shower, the detachable head, the bench for sitting purposes. _She's going to have to drag me out of here._ Eagerly, I nearly run back to my duffle bag and sift through it for the bar of soap that's wrapped up in the dirty old t-shirt. I peel the soap out of it, put it on the bed and shed my clothes. I tiptoe back to the bathroom and quietly close the door behind myself. When I get over to the shower, I put the soap on the ledge and stare at the nozzle, trying to figure it out. I twist the knob all the way to "hot" and only add a little bit of "cold." It's not long before the entire room fills up with steam and I'm not sure if it's the fact that I'm hormonal, but I genuinely feel the need to cry. When I step into the spray, the water burns me but it feels too good to step away. I stick my head underneath the spray and everything and once my entire body is wet, I decide to take a seat on the wooden handicap bench. I yank the shower head off the wall and bring it over to the bench with me.

As much as I'd love to spend all day in here, letting the steaming hot water just hit every inch of my body and take all of my aches and pains away, I won't. I'll do what I need to do and leave. I won't be greedy. I lift my leg up to the best of my ability and let the water hit my aching, swollen foot and ankle. When that one's hand ample time, I alternate. And I don't mean to, but I put my head against the wall and let my eyes close.

 **X X X**

I tuck my towel underneath my armpit so it'll stay up around my chest and drag my feet along the floor until I'm over at the same door I came through about twenty minutes ago. I spent a little longer in the shower than I had originally hoped and I feel a little bit guilty about that. I fell asleep for a minute, but when I woke up, I did everything I needed to do quickly. I hope I wasn't in there that long. Anyway, I feel clean now. Not the fake kind of clean I felt whenever I took a bird bath at the gas station this morning, either. I feel actual cleanliness. I even rubbed the bar of soap across my hair, so that's clean too. It's funny how good a shower can make you feel.

I wrap my hand around the door knob and pull, stepping back into the room that was so graciously given to me. It smells different in here now though. When I inhale, I take in the scent of...crab cakes? Or no, maybe it's chicken. I don't know what it is, but the smell makes my stomach scream at me...I'm not sure if it's my stomach or the baby though, if I'm being totally honest. I close the door and step onto the cold floor and when I lift my head up, on the bed, I see a pile of brown blankets stacked up. On the dresser is a large tray with a plate of rotisserie chicken with brown gravy drizzled on top, yellow corn on the side, and a heaping mound of mashed potatoes and gravy too. The more I stare at it, the more my vision blurs. It even doubles and that's when I realize that tears are actually lining the rims of my eyes. _Is that for me?_

I walk over to the platter of food, complete with a carton of lemonade and stare at it. There's steam emitting from it and everything looks and smells so...incredibly...good. My mouth actually waters. That's not just an expression, mouths actually do water. I purse my lips together to keep myself from crying and turn away from the food. I shake my head and just start drying my body off. Like a regular patient, I put on the gown given to me and the pair of socks. I put my damp hair up in a bun and sit down on the bed, ignoring the food. I want to eat it. Lord knows I want to eat it so, so bad. But I can't. I can't. She already let me shower. She can't give me food too. I won't let her. She's already doing enough for me. I'm so deeply appreciative for everything she's done so far but I'm crossing the line. I'm not eating that food when I probably will never, ever have the means to pay this hospital back.

I slide back on the bed and kick my feet up to rest them, draping my arms leisurely across my middle. I stare at the painted picture of a flowerpot on the wall in front of me and let my mind wander a million places. First of all, I wonder where Chris is. I wonder if he made it to Canada alright. I wonder if my car gave out on him, if a cop recognized the license plate. I wonder if he's doing okay. But most of all, I wonder why he left me. I wonder if he ever had any intentions of coming back for me. I wonder if he left deliberately or if he left because a cop pulled into the parking lot of the gas station. Boy, do I hope that's true. He wouldn't just leave me like that, would he? Chris wasn't always nice to me but...people aren't that bad, are they? I refuse to believe that. I refuse to believe that people are all that bad. He wouldn't just leave the mother of his child. He's 23...he's more mature than that. I sigh. I don't know why he left me. I'd like to know why, but if I keep thinking about it and theorizing about it, I'm just going to cry, so I'm done.

Second of all, how great is Amelia? I mean really, how great is she? She's a perfect stranger to me. She saw me once, felt sorry for the pregnant teenager in the gas station, and came back to check on her. It takes a special kind of person to do that. I can see in her eyes that she's been through bad weather herself, but she still finds it within herself to help me. I think that's so admirable. I don't think she'll ever know how eternally grateful I am to her. But you know what else I don't think? I don't think her son has any idea how great his mother is. He'll know someday, but for now, he's content to play with his Rubik's Cube. He'll know what kind of mother he has someday, and when that time comes, he'll appreciate her. Good mothers like that don't come around often...believe me on that.

I peel my eyes away from the painting and look at the food from the corner of my eye. I don't want to eat that. I want her to check on the baby, maybe tell me what I'm doing wrong and what I should do, maybe tell me what kind of vitamins I should be taking and let me go on my way. I want her to treat me like a normal patient. I can't ever repay her for this and I hate feeling like I'm indebted to people. I do not want to eat that food. ...But I'm so hungry and starving myself is one thing but… I sigh and pick the tray up off the end table. I put it down on the bed in front of me, pick up the black plastic fork supplied with it and dig right into the mashed potatoes first. I eat them with a hand on my belly and an eye on my duffle. Once I'm done eating, I'll need to get up and grab that duffle. I need my notebook out of it. I need to start a new list.

 _I Owe Amelia…_


	7. Big Fat Liar

**Amelia's Point of View**

I am a lot of things. I know I am. I'm a lot of things that aren't so great. I'm impulsive, sometimes horribly so. I say things without speaking. I'm selfish and I'm an idiot even, because even though I get a stomachache, I'll still eat an entire box of oreos while watching a chick flick. That's something I'm really not proud of, doing either part of that sentence, but like I said, I'm a lot of things. One thing I'm not, though, is a liar. Maybe some people would see this as a fault, but it's always been how I define myself. I say what I mean and I mean what I say. I hate lying. But I know sometimes it's necessary, and that's why my day today is full of doing exactly that.

The first person I lie to is my son. When we're checking on Roberta Paige, my surgery at four-thirty, he beams. I explain to him what I'm doing in the best terms I can for a five year old. Roberta gives me the go ahead, she's absolutely enthralled by his sweet face. I don't blame her. He's a charmer. She sits up and lets Teddy use my stethoscope to hear her heart. I place it for him, and we all stand in silence as Teddy crinkles his face trying to listen. I can tell when he hears it, because he looks up at me with his jaw wide open, excitement shining in his eyes.

"Good job, Bear!" I exclaim. "You heard it?" He nods, but then he seems a little bit frightened by the idea, so he gives me the stethoscope back. I tell Roberta that everything looks good and everything is on track for four-thirty, and I can tell that Teddy made her day. It makes me happy that I brought him. Everyone loves him. He's easy to love. When we leave, I'm holding Teddy again. He's playing with the stethoscope around my neck, examining it as if he's trying to understand its magic powers. It's easy to forget how smart he is when he isn't talking, but he's always been so smart. He's gifted, and I can say that, because I'm borrowing his teacher's words. It's really not just me being a mom. I think about all he's heard today, what he was thinking with Jo. We walk down the hallway and stop at the vending machine, and I let him point to what he wants and then put the dollar in himself.

His eyes light up as the Mrs. Fields cookie drops to the bottom, and his arm is so little he has to go shoulder deep just to get it out. We sit down in the two chairs next to the vending machines and I unwrap the cookie for him halfway, so the first half is available for him to chomp down on. He looks up at me and holds it up, offering me a piece, and I feel too loved by the gesture to say no. I take a little bite right off the cookie and it makes Teddy smile. When he takes another bite, he gets a bit of melted chocolate on the tip of his nose. I laugh at how cute he is, and he smiles at my laugh.

"Hey, Teddy Bear," I say, trying to keep my tone casual and light. "I want to talk to you about our day as a doctor today, okay?"

He tilts his head and nods, taking another bite of his cookie.

"Sometimes people need help, but..." I stop and try to think of how to explain it. "Sometimes other people don't know how much help they need and think they're okay, but really they need a lot of help. Like when you fall on a rug, you know how it hurts really bad? But it doesn't look that bad. It doesn't even look like a boo-boo at all. But that doesn't mean it isn't. And it doesn't mean you don't need a band-aid."

Teddy blinks and nods at me. I can't tell if he understands or not. I wish he could talk to me.

"Sometimes you have to help people even when it's hard. Sometimes you have to break the rules to do it." Teddy's eyebrows raise. He's alarmed at the idea of his mom breaking the rules, and I immediately regret saying it. This is where the lying comes in. "But not always," I say quickly. "That doesn't always happen. I just want you to know if it ever happens to you, you can tell me."

I'm not even sure it makes sense. I doubt he'll retain it. But he nods, so in that moment, he takes it better than the idea of me lying. I can mess up a thousand times, I can put his life in danger, but I don't lie. I know how to comb his hair after a bath the right way and I always know just how to rub his tummy when he gets a stomachache. Those little moments... that's what being a mother is, right? The big parts I can fundamentally and irreversibly screw up, but as long as I sing to him after a bedtime story and always have tissues in my pocket for him, I'm still his mommy. I'm still what he knows me to be.

After Teddy finishes his cookie, he wads the wrapper up in a ball and walks himself to the nearby trashcan to throw it away. I decide to check up on Jo, since I gave her an hour. The dwindling time gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach. For some reason, it feels like this is my one day with Teddy and once it's over, it's over.

I let Teddy ride on the wheels of the ultrasound machine and I push him. I would never have done it if I wasn't trying so hard to atone for everything with him, and I wonder if that makes me an even worse parent. But Teddy giggles and his hair flaps back into his face when I push and for the moment, that's enough to keep me going.

I knock on the door to her room and stand outside it for a few minutes, waiting for an answer. When there isn't one, I knock again. I give her another moment before I twist the knob and slowly unlatch the door, peering inside. As soon as I see Jo curled up in a ball and passed out on the bed, I smile and open it wider. Teddy spots Jo sleeping too, so he steps carefully off the wheels so he doesn't make any extra noise. The tray next to her is wiped clean and she's in the gown I gave her, her hair still damp from the shower. She looks comfortable... and that is no easy feat being pregnant. If I didn't have a surgery in an hour, I probably would have let her sleep longer. But instead, I nudge her shoulder to start on lie number two.

* * *

 **Jo's Point of View**

For the second time in two days, I actually have to think about where I am when I wake up. I woke up in the gas station yesterday and almost crapped my pants because it was such a strange place and I forgot where I was. Waking up in this hospital room is no different. I forgot where I was at for a moment...I guess that's what happens when you don't have one steady, consistent place to sleep. I wrinkle my eyebrows as my eyelids, though they're still shut, adjust to the lighting in the room. I wince a little bit at the throbbing, pulsating ache behind my left eyeball. When my eyelids part, my vision takes a while to adjust and I have to blink a few times to bring everyone into focus. _Did I really just pass out like that?_ God, I didn't realize how tired I was. I blink a few more times and finally, I see that Amelia's hovering over me and her son is standing just a few paces behind her. My head is pounding, probably due to the fact that I fell asleep so suddenly and slept so hard, but I lift it up off the pillow anyway. I prop myself up on one elbow and use my right hand to rub my eyes as a yawn escapes my mouth.

"Sleep well, sunshine?" she cracks a smile.

I wrinkle my eyebrows once again and rub my eyes hard, nodding the answer to her question. My hair slaps against the back of my neck and I feel that it's still pretty damp, so I swing it over my shoulder to keep it out of my way. I still don't think I've fully woken up yet, so I just don't say anything. Instead, I eyeball the machine she's got her hands on and take the moment to process exactly what it is I came here for in the first place. I kind of forgot. I got so wrapped up in the warm shower, the water hitting my aching feet and the decent meal that I forgot that this visit is actually for something-for some _one,_ rather. I yawn again and look up at her.

"Sorry I-" I start to apologize for falling asleep, but I decide against it. I don't think I need to apologize. I think Amelia was halfway expecting me to fall asleep. "Is that for the baby?" I mumble, pointing to the machine. _Of course it's for the baby, stupid. What else would it be for?_ I think I only asked that because I felt like I needed to say at least something to her.

"This old thing? No," she waves her hand in the air. "I just thought since I'm a doctor and all, I'd take this chance to show off some super cool medical equipment that I get to use everyday and you don't, before I get the actual ultrasound machine." Her son behind her giggles and she looks back and smiles at him before she looks back at me with a softer expression on her face. "Are you ready?"

"Mhm," I nod my head. I haven't been to an appointment to check on the baby in a really long time, but I'm pretty sure I remember that I have to lie flat on my back. I lower myself down on my back and rest my head in the middle of my pillow as I stare up at the ceiling tiles. Ii don't like lying on my back. It's uncomfortable and it feels like everything shifts. It feels like I can't breathe and it's just honestly the most uncomfortable thing in the world, aside from wearing jeans that don't fit me.

"Do you want me to have Teddy face the other way? You should be comfortable."

I look at the pale-faced, red-headed little boy and can't help but grin. In truth, I really don't feel like he should see me all bare, exposed and vulnerable. Not that I'm naked but I don't really show my belly to many people. I guess maybe I try to hide it as much as I can. When we lived back in Nevada, I had a friend named Casey and she would always try to get me to show it to her so she could kiss it and rub it and stuff. Granted, Casey was a drug addict and only came around because Chris was her supplier, but I still think we were friends. She looked out for me. Anyway, my point is that I don't usually let people see it. I'm not ashamed of it. I just think that showing off your bare belly is something you do only if you're overjoyed and excited about having a baby and I'm not exactly either one of those things. ...Maybe I am ashamed of it. I'm not proud...doesn't that mean I'm ashamed? I pull myself out of my thoughts and stare at the little boy, the one she calls "Teddy." He seems curious and if I were in his shoes, I think I'd want to watch my mommy take care of a pregnant lady. This is probably cool for him.

"He doesn't have to," I shake my head and allow Amelia to pull my gown back in front of her adorable little boy. It's not until my stomach is bare that I realize this might actually be scary for him. I mean, I think I'd be a little freaked out to see a stomach all stretched like this. If he's gonna look, this should at least be fun for him, right? "You ever see a belly this big?" I ask him.

He shakes his head quickly. He looks terrified that I spoke to him, clearly not expecting it.

"It's what happens when you eat a lotta donuts." I wink at him. He studies me for a few seconds before his face breaks into a grin and he shakes his head again. It's a different kind of shake, though. This time it's clear he's doing it to tell me that it isn't true, and I'm silly for thinking it.

"That's a baby in there, Bear," Amelia says, moving the transducer across my belly. I don't remember much from my last baby check-up, but I do know that this time is a lot more gentle. The last time, the gel was cold and it was uncomfortable but I didn't expect much from an old free clinic. At least Amelia's gentle, I guess. "Just like you used to be," she tells him. She turns to me then studies the machine until the sound of a steady heartbeat comes from it. "Baby looks and sounds great. Do you want to wait to find out the gender or do you want to know today?"

"The gender?" The question genuinely stumps me. I don't want to say that I forgot that the baby had a gender, but it honestly never crossed my mind. It never really occurred to me that I'm going to have a boy or a girl. I guess I've just been too busy worrying about other things, like whether or not my boyfriend and the father of the baby was going to end up in jail. And living in a gas station...well, you don't have much time to think about things like the sex of your baby. I might as well know right? "Y-You mean like...like if it's a boy or a girl?"

"Probably one of those, yeah, " she smiles at me, but not the kind of smile she usually smiles. Usually, when Amelia smiles at me, it's because the both of us are mutually making each other either laugh or grin. But this time, her smile is something else. It has a sense of amusement in it. Is she amused by me? _Probably by your stupid questions, yeah._

"Right," I nod, answering both Amelia and the little voice bullying me in my head. "Um...I mean yeah, yeah." I nod quickly. "Yeah, tell me."

"You're sure?"

"Uh-huh." I never realized how much I wanted to know. It literally went from being the last thing on my mind to the only thing I can think about. Am I having a girl or a boy? I've been thinking of names...well, not lately, but I have. Mostly when I laid in bed next to Chris at night and couldn't sleep. I thought about Lilly, maybe. Or Jacob. I thought about names. But it might help if I knew what gender to think about. Yeah, I wanna know. "I'm sure."

"Okay," she nods and moves the transducer to get a different angle on the screen. Lines pop up on the screen and it's clear she's measuring, although I don't know what. Ii narrow my eyes a bit as I look at the screen but eventually, I give up. The picture is fuzzy and I have no idea what I'm looking at…Amelia does...and she smiles a little, still looking at the screen. "Well, right now your little girl is measuring at just about 33 weeks. It looks like you're going to have a little Christmas baby."

"You said a girl?" Suddenly, my eyes sting a little bit and my vision gets all blurry. I'm not sure if it's the hormones but I really want to cry. I won't though. I don't want to upset the angel-faced little boy still standing by his mother's side. "And Christmas? A-are you sure? About that? I...I actually remember the um...the first doctor I went to said that my due date was January 13th...but it was a little free clinic thing that I went to and it was kind of crappy, so she might've been wrong…"

"If you still have this baby inside you by January 13th, she might really break your back in half," she turns the screen towards me and points to a large, circular, fuzzy gray blip in the middle of the screen. "See that? There's her head. Her little arm is stretched up over it."

"She has an arm…" I whisper to myself, somewhere between shock and amazement. I'm not stupid. I know that a baby is a person and a person is inside of me right now. But still...she has an arm. And she's a she. I'm having a girl. I'm gonna have a daughter...this makes me feel...like nothing else in the world matters right now. Like I don't care that I'm pregnant, homeless, seventeen years old. Like I don't care that Chris abandoned me with nothing but a nickel in my pocket. This makes me feel like everything else in this world is irrelevant...makes me feel like I want to be a different kind of person. I don't want to be the worthless piece of crap that I've been; the piece of crap that steals everything and anything from a gas station. I don't know what I'm going to do but I know that I'm going to do something because the baby- _she_ deserves something...and I don't want her to be ashamed to call me her mother. I'd be ashamed to call me my mother. But I don't want that to be the case. _I don't think you can hear me...We share a body, not a mind. But just in case you can hear me, or feel me...just know that I'm sorry. And I do love you._ "Is it-she okay? Everything's okay? She has a heartbeat and all that stuff? I haven't….I haven't messed her up?"

"You haven't messed her up," Amelia says, but then she looks away. When she turns back to the screen, her face falls and she stops moving the transducer.

"A-Amelia," I start, noting the look of somberness on her face. There's something wrong. I can tell. "Amelia, I'm...I'm almost eighteen years old and seven months pregnant...but I'm not stupid. Please don't treat me like I'm stupid, okay? If there's something wrong with my baby...can you just tell me? I...I already kind of know that there is." I look down at my round little bump. It's not very big but it's noticeable and it's round and it's large enough for me to not be able to see past it. "I figured that much. I...haven't been the best with this whole... _pregnant_ thing," I mumble the "p" word. "And I know that I messed her up. So you can just tell me."

"You didn't mess her up," she says solemnly, toweling off my stomach and recovering it with my gown. "I just want to monitor her for a little bit to make sure everything stays that way. I'm going to have a nurse check up on you every few hours throughout the night. I need you to stay here for me tonight so we can make sure she stays okay, alright? I'm not going to admit you or do any paperwork. All you have to do is stay in this room and get anything you need from Linda. She's going to be the nurse that checks on you and the baby."

"Linda...okay." I sit up and swing my feet as they dangle over the edge of the table. "...Will you be back? Like tomorrow or something?"

"I have to go to a surgery now, but I'll come back before I leave for the day. And I'll be back in the morning."

"Okay," I whisper. In truth, I don't like the idea of her leaving me. I don't like thinking that she's leaving when A, she's clearly doing something wrong and B, what if someone calls me out on it? I don't think Amelia would let that happen but on the off chance, what if it does? What if someone barges in here and realizes that I'm not supposed to be here while Amelia's not here to take care of it? I'll lie for her. I'll tell them that I'm her niece, just like she said to. I won't like it, but I'll lie. But still...I wish she didn't have to go. "Alright," I say that louder so she can hear me, and tuck my damp hair behind my ears.

"You still have the card I gave you, right? If you need anything you can call my cell phone on it. No one is going to come in here, but if they do, you don't have to say anything. Just tell them my name. They'll come talk to me about it. But no one is going to come in here. Just relax and watch T.V. and take it easy for the night. I'll have Linda bring you a menu for dinner."

 _Dinner._ Even the thought seems too pleasant to be true. I don't think I've ever really had a dinner before. Not even when I was still being shuffled back and forth between homes. I think I might've had one dinner before...maybe two. Foster parents aren't all bad, but the one that I did have before I pulled myself out of the system didn't cook me much dinner. It was mostly cereal and sometimes we had a box of pizza lingering around. Sure, I've had food before. Chris and I used to order out all the time. But I would hardly call that dinner. We used to eat it at 1:30 in the morning, sometimes later. It all depended on when Chris was hungry at the moment. So yeah...dinner sounds nice.

"Amelia...you don't have to do this for me." I look down at my bare knees and bite my lips. "Thanks."

"Just sit tight," she nods. "Go ahead, Teddy," she motions towards the ultrasound machine as she pushes it towards the door. He jumps on the wheels and holds on it with his arms stretched out across it, his face beaming with his cheek smushed against it. Amelia looks back at me and gives me one more nod before she leaves the room with her son and the machine that showed me my baby girl.

* * *

 **Amelia's Point of View**

I walk in a daze towards the scrub room. After leaving a teenage girl alone to worry about her unborn baby, then dropping my own off at daycare, I'm thinking that I'm a big fat liar. I could justify it, explain it, convince myself I'm doing the right thing, and maybe all that's true, but I'm still a big fat liar. Really, I always have been. Thinking that I'm not is just kidding myself. I lie to my family, to my friends, I most definitely lie to myself all the time. What's the big deal about lying to a girl I brought in from a gas station? I'm a liar, I should be used to it.

I try to make myself feel better about it by forcing myself to think about the way Jo was passed out when I walked in. I imagine she'll sleep great tonight. I force myself to think about the full dinner and dessert. And just about a night where she's safe and comfortable and warm. It helps for a minute. Until that little voice in my head, the voice that isn't quite mine, but always appears to make me think about the logical explanation, overpowers my justification. _You don't know her._ Probably, she isn't living in a gas station. Probably, she isn't homeless. Probably, I'm keeping her when it's not necessary and forcing her to spend the night thinking something is wrong with her baby because I'm making an educated guess.

Dirty clothes. Still at gas station. No insurance. Came with a duffel bag of clothes to her appointment, as if she had nowhere else to keep her only possession in the world. I go over them like a checklist in my head. I should write them down and make a list, honestly. All The Reasons Jo Is Homeless. I mean, I could just ask her. But I doubt she'd tell me. I tell myself I'm doing it for the greater good, but does it really matter? I try to imagine someone doing this to me with Teddy and my blood boils. It's a horrible thing. It's horrible. She's sitting in that room with her perfectly healthy baby girl probably going through all the worst case scenarios. I think about her questions, so naive and innocent and sweet. _You mean... if it's a boy or a girl?_ and the way she was with Teddy. I shouldn't have lied to her. I should have offered the room and let her make the decision for herself.

But I didn't want her to make the wrong one.

When the door swings open to the scrub room, I realize I've been scrubbing in for probably a solid ten minutes, completely lost in my own thoughts. I see a flash of blonde hair before I hear her panting.

"Amelia," she says, bending forward to catch her breath. She holds her hand out to tell me to give her a minute. "Amelia. I'm glad I caught you before you went in."

"Why?" I ask, tilting my head as she stands up.

"Because I want to know... if... if..."

"Spit it out, Arizona," I say, shaking my arms over the sink to air dry them.

"Where were you this morning?"

"That's what you had to find me for?" I can't help but laugh. "I didn't have surgeries, so I spent the morning at home with Owen and Teddy. Why? Did you need something?"

"No," she shrugs. "I was just bored. Callie's on some new health kick lately and it's _all_ she wants to talk about. I mean, I can only hear about the miracle of lettuce and carrot sticks for so long. At home, on the way to work, at work. I just want a cookie."

I laugh and use my back to push open the door towards the OR, standing in the doorway to finish our conversation.

"At least you guys are talking about _something."_

Arizona frowns. "You and Owen aren't doing any better? I thought-"  
I shake my head to cut her off. "Actually, I have a feeling things are about to get a lot worse. I'm keeping a pretty big secret from him."

"You're pregnant!"

"What? No!" I try to let the shock cover any sadness that might be in voice at the truth in my answer. "No, it's nothing like that."

"Then what is it? Why can't you tell him?"

I sigh and weigh the risks of telling her. Arizona is happy and upbeat and light-hearted, but she's the most trustworthy friend I have. I know she wouldn't tell. She'd probably want to help. Still, telling anyone is a big risk. There's always the possibility she could react badly.

"I snuck a girl into the hospital," I admit, ignoring the shock on her face. "I have to get into the OR, so I can't explain the details. But she's in room 546."

"Ah," Arizona nods. "The Ghost Rooms."

"Yeah," I agree. "She's 17 and pregnant and I'm pretty sure she's homeless, and she needs help. But Owen can't find out. If he finds out-"

"He's the Chief. Amelia, this works to your advantage! He can OK this. Why wouldn't you tell him? He's like a gentle giant. Don't you think he'd want to help her?"

"I know he would," I say honestly. "It's just... it's us."

"What does it have to do with you two?"

"After the accident," I say, and the mood drops in the room. That word between anyone who knows is like an anchor. It falls to the ground and takes everyone around down with it. "It's supposed to be about us right now. I'm supposed to be working on myself and my family, I told him I would. Owen and I are supposed to be trying. If he thinks I'm not being serious about this... he's going to leave me, Arizona. I can feel it."

"He would never. He loves you too much."

"He can't know," I repeat. "He just can't. I just... can you help? As a fetal surgeon... I told her she needs to stay here so we can watch her baby. I just wanted her to have a place to sleep. Maybe you can... can..."

"Lie?"

"You don't even have to lie. Just come once and be really vague. I just want her to stay in the hospital until I can figure out how to help her."

"She can't live in the hospital, Amelia."

"I know that."

"So what are you going to do? Take her in as your own? Raise her kid?"

"No!" I shake my head, trying to make sense of my own thoughts. "I don't know. But I have to do something, right? I can't just send her off in the world alone. She's completely alone, Arizona. All you have to do is meet her once. You'll understand."

"I don't know," she says. "You want me to tell her that her healthy baby is sick?"

"Just... tell her that her baby's heartbeat is irregular. It's not a lie. All babies heartbeats are a little irregular. If you say it in a serious tone as a fetal surgeon and tell her you want to keep her in the hospital for a few more days..."

"It's lying, Amelia."

"Yeah, well, I'm a big fat liar," I say, shrugging my shoulders to try and make this horrible realization seem like a passing by thought. "It's for a good cause, though."

"It's still lying to a patient about her child."

"Think about it," I plead. "You might save her life."

* * *

 **What do you guys think? Should Arizona lie to help Jo?**

 **Let me know in reviews!**


	8. Options

**A/N:** **Get your tissues ready, because you're probably going to cry!**

* * *

 **Jo's Point of View**

My fingertips tingle as they stroke the expensive looking cardstock paper that the dinner menu is printed on in fancy calligraphic letters. For a second, my thoughts spill over into thinking about how much all of this could cost but like the vast majority of everything I've been thinking about lately, the thought floats for one moment, dances across my mind, and is gone the next. I'm finding it hard to hold a decent thought in my mind for any longer than five seconds. I used to think that when people said "it's on the backburner", they were just being expressive. It's just a figure of speech, I thought. But as I'm sitting here on top of a narrow padded mattress, wearing a paper-thin white and blue gown that barely ties shut around my back and socks that make my feet feel like they're floating on a cloud, I know now that putting something on the backburner is a real thing. Every thought that I've had in the last half hour has been put on the backburner and the one and only thing that's on the front burner is enveloping my entire thought process.

I know Amelia said that there wasn't anything wrong with the baby and she hasn't really ever given me a reason not to trust her. I do trust her. I just don't trust that she'd keep me here in this hospital overnight if there truly wasn't anything wrong with the baby. There's definitely something wrong. She wouldn't have me in a hospital, hogging up a bed that could be used for someone else if there wasn't at least something worth keeping me for. Even if it is something small, like maybe my blood pressure was high or low, I'd still like for her to tell me. But right now, in the back of my mind, I already know that it wasn't necessarily something that small. It was probably something catastrophic that she saw on the ultrasound and she left so quickly because she wants to run tests or get someone that actually deals with babies. If I remember correctly, Amelia is a neurosurgeon. And as I've stated before, I'm very far from stupid. I know that "neuro" means "brain" and if Amelia's a neurosurgeon, that means she deals with the brain and if she deals with the brain, she can't possibly know much about fetuses, right? What if she went to get a baby doctor?

I should've known. Seven months pregnant and I should've known. I haven't seen a doctor since I was five months pregnant. I haven't been to the doctor in two damn months and I expected the baby to be okay. To a certain extent, maybe I really am stupid. Maybe I'm book smart...I got straight As on my report cards since kindergarten and before I dropped out, I was ranked as the valedictorian of my class. But I don't think I have any common sense because if I did, I would've been better prepared for this. I let the excitement of actually being seen by a doctor overshadow what I should have known. I should have known that something was going to be wrong with the baby. I haven't been to a doctor in two months, I don't take those vitamins as religiously as I'm supposed to because I can't really afford them, and well, let's face it, now the baby could be coming out with three heads, five arms and six eyeballs. Perhaps the biggest mistake I made was being around all that crap I was around though. I knew I shouldn't have been around Chris while he was making the stuff, but I was anyway. I never put a needle in my arm and shot up, I never lowered my face down to a mirror and snorted, hell, I've never even let something touch my lips to smoke it. But I was around it while he was making it, I was around it while he was doing all of the above and I was there when he would hand it to me to give to a customer. There's no way in hell at least some of it didn't get into my system. God, what if I'm having a drug addicted baby? Oh my god.

I purse my lips and squeeze my eyes shut tightly to stop the influx of tears that are threatening to fall. They're literally in my eyes, taunting me, telling me that they're going to fall whether or not I like it and I just don't think there's any point of fighting them off anymore. I sniff and open my eyes again and it's not long before they're rolling off my cheeks and splashing down on the cardstock that's still between my fingers. I never meant for the baby to get hurt. I know that it-that _she_ was in a bad situation. I knew, from the moment I found out that I was pregnant with her, that I had to do something to protect her. She was going to be born into a house where crack cocaine and bricks of heroin were embedded in the carpets and saturated in the walls. She was going to be born to a teenaged mother with no future and a drug addicted father who never wanted her in the first place. I knew...but I didn't do anything to fix it. But please believe me when I say I never meant for her to get hurt. I never, ever, ever meant for her to get hurt. I love her...I wouldn't hurt her. I never wanted her to get hurt and look at me now...in the hospital because something's wrong with her. _I'm so sorry._

I wipe my tears with the pads of my fingers and sniff again, trying to make my vision clearer so I can see the listings on the menu I'm holding. _What do you want to eat?_ I take one hand off the menu and place it on my belly. _What sounds good? They've got meatloaf and mashed potatoes, pizza and french fries, a caesar salad or lasagna and garlic bread. Which one sounds the best?_ I rub the palm of my hand in a small circle. I think she wants the meatloaf, so we'll go with that. Next time Linda comes back in, I'll tell her that me and my little no name here want the meatloaf for dinner...and maybe I'll squeeze in a little chocolate cake because if I'm going to make my baby be born with malfunctions, I should at least make sure she eats good. It's just one more thing I'll have to pay back eventually, but it's for the baby and it's about time I start sacrificing stuff for her.

Just as I close the menu and lean over to put it back on the end table next to my bed, the door to my room opens up and when it does, I feel my eyebrows raise. It's probably only Linda, since she's really the only person that's been coming to visit me-err, wait on me hand and foot. It's either Linda or Amelia and I highly doubt that it's the latter, because she said she wouldn't be back until she was ready to leave for the night and at 5:34 in the evening, I doubt her day is over when she just got here four hours earlier.

To my surprise, neither Amelia nor Linda walks into the room. Instead, a man dressed in powder blue scrubs comes in and he's wheeling the same ultrasound machine that Amelia used on me earlier. He has a hardened look on his face, but the more I study him, the more I realize that he's probably just suffering from a case of being utterly exhausted. I can see laugh lines on the corners of his mouth and his eyes are soft. Amelia said that I didn't have to speak to anyone I didn't want to speak to, so I don't. I stay quiet with my hands on my belly as I watch him. His shoulders are broad and muscular, leading down to arms that are clearly ripped even though the long sleeves of his white lab coat. His legs are a touch less muscular as his arms and immediately, I can tell that he either is a wrestler or used to be one. All wrestlers are built the same, I've noticed. He has a splotch of wavy, unruly sandy brown hair on his head and when he turns towards me, I can see that his eyes are a shade crossed between dark brown and dark green. He doesn't have a nametag and I wish he did, because I'd like to know it. I squint my eyes and try to make out the navy blue cursive writing on the breast pocket of his coat, but the only thing I can decipher is "r-e-v" so I give up.

"...Didn't they tell you that I'd be coming in to look at you?" He raises his eyebrow when he speaks to me, as if he was expecting me to be the one to speak first.

I shake my head and look at the door, praying that Amelia will come through it and come through it soon. I don't want to be alone with him. It's not that I think he's going to hurt me or anything like that, I just don't want to be alone in this room with this stranger when I know deep in the back of my mind that I'm not supposed to be here in the first place. He left the door open, that's a clear sign that he doesn't plan to pin me down and have his way with me. I'm not scared of that and even if he shut the door, I wouldn't have been afraid of that either. I don't think he'd hurt a fly.

"Huh," he mumbles to himself. He turns on the ultrasound machine and instead of squirting the purple gel on my stomach, this time, he puts it on the instrument. The more I look at the machine, the more I realize that it's not exactly the same as what Amelia used and I guess that makes sense. Why would they give me two ultrasounds in less than one hour? Plus, the little wand thing that he's setting up is a lot different than the one Amelia used. This one looks more like a microphone "I'm Alex," he mumbles to me this time. "Dr. Karev, I mean. I'm not really a-...Just lay back."

I nod my head at him and lie flat on my back again. Just to be nice to him because I imagine how awkward it must be for him to have to come into a random pregnant girl's room and do an exam, I pull my gown back for him. He looks grateful for a moment but the look quickly fades and goes back to that "I would rather be anywhere in this world right now than here" look. As if he's been doing this all his life, he puts the circular part of the microphone thing just below my belly button and off to the left a little bit and he doesn't have to move it. Instead, he turns the machine on, tampers with the volume and as soon as he turns it up, the room is filled with the sounds of my baby's heartbeat. It sounds hard...strong, even. Like someone smacking a drum in perfect, even beats.

"You're 'bout what? 33 weeks? Something like that?" he asks. I nod my head. "You're gonna have to talk to me eventually, you know." I still say nothing. "...Well my job here's done." He turns off the machine just as quickly as he turned it on and wipes the little bit of film on my stomach off with a wash towel. He takes off his gloves and tosses them away. "My boss...Dr. Robbins...they tell you about her?" I shake my head again. "She's my boss, the head of everything...she'll be in. My job's done." I sit up and close my gown around my stomach again. "They keepin' you here overnight?" I nod. "Probably something routine...doesn't sound like there's anything wrong in there."

"How do you know?" I blurt, immediately regretting it. I don't mean to sound condescending. Obviously he knows what he's doing, otherwise he wouldn't be here. I don't mean to imply that he doesn't know what he's talking about, I just want to know how exactly he knows that there's nothing wrong with the baby. "I-I...I mean, how can you tell?"

"The heartbeat sounds good, that's how." He packs up the machine. "...You tryna say I'm too young to be here?"

"Oh no, I just-"

"Because I could say the same about you," he shrugs his shoulders. I wrinkle my brow at him and tilt my head. "I'm just screwin' with you." he sighs, clearly disappointed with how well his joke didn't go over. "Look, you're right. I'm only 22 and I'm only in med school and this is only part of one of my clerkships. But I know what I'm talking about. And I don't think you have anything to worry about." I relax my face to silently tell him that I didn't really take offense to his dense joke about my age. "I'll see you around," he mumbles again and heads back out of the room. He mumbles an awful lot, but I think...maybe if he wasn't such an inconsiderate little jerk, I might've actually liked him. In fact, I think I did like him. He'll make a good doctor someday...if he cleans up the sarcasm that flows through his veins in place of blood and the impulsivity that comes out his mouth like saliva, that is.

I roll my eyes when he shuts the door behind him and flop back against the pillows. Where's Amelia when I need her?

* * *

 **Amelia's Point of View**

Arizona paged me six times to Jo's room while I was in surgery. I don't know what it means, but I'd like to believe that she's there right now, lying to Jo to keep her in the hospital for one more night. Owen paged me once, but I decided to let that one slide until I go see what's going on with Jo. If it had anything to do with Teddy, he would have interrupted my surgery, so anything else can wait. I text Arizona that I'm on my way up, tell the team in the OR that they did a great job, then I break out into a little half-run up to the Ghost Rooms. It takes nearly no time at all. On the surgical field, if you run through the hallways, people tend to let you be, assuming you have somewhere important to be.

By the time I push the door open, I have to catch my breath, so I look down before I look into the room. I see Jo first, sitting up obediently, looking tense, uncomfortable and like she really wants to cry. I wonder if Arizona just gave her bad news. But she doesn't look sad or worried... she just looks... I glance to the side of the bed, seeing for the first time Arizona and the back of a head that is all too familiar. I swallow hard, feeling my heart speed up in my chest. I'm imagining it. Or he doesn't know... there's still a chance he doesn't know. He thinks Jo is just a regular patient. He stumbled into here by accident, and Arizona covered for me. She explained... he wouldn't know. There's no way for him to know.

"Is everything okay?" I ask stupidly.

"Dr. Robbins and I were just telling Ms. Wilson about our payment policy," Owen says, his hands resting on his hip. He turns to me and then I know. It's not a mistake. It's no accident. My first thought is that I'm truly brainless. I went to Arizona... I believed that because we're friends, she'd bend the rules and risk her license and position as Chief of Peds. I should have gone to a medical student... my first thought is Arizona's protege Karev. I don't know all that much about him, but I think in that moment he would have been a safer bet than Arizona. I wonder if he would have helped. He probably would if only because I'm an attending and he wouldn't want to risk his spot in the program. He seems like the type that would be willing to bend the rules if circumstances call for it though. I'm so stuck on the thought of how it could have been different if I had chosen Karev instead of Arizona that I barely hear the rest of what Owen says.

"Owen, I can explain this. It's- she needed help."

"I understand that and appreciate that," Owen says, and he looks sympathetically at Jo. I hate him right then because I know him so well. I know exactly what he's thinking, how he's torn apart over it, but how he'll always make the rational decision. That's who he is. And I hate that I know it before he has to say anything, because it's not what I want to hear. "But we can't make exceptions for everyone. It's just not reasonable, Amelia."

"I'm not asking you to make exceptions for everyone," I clench my jaw.

Owen turns away from me and looks back at Jo. I can see the guilt all over him. Arizona tries to look at me, but I purposefully avoid her gaze. Instead I watch Jo, nodding as Owen tells her to take her time as long as she's out by ten.

"Just let her stay the night," I plead. "One night."

"Then what?" Owen barks, then rubs his face hard. I can tell he's about to lose his temper and he doesn't want to do it in the room. "Are you insane? Do you know what you've risked for yourself just by bringing her here? This is-" he stops and turns towards Jo. "I'm really sorry. We have a free clinic open Wednesdays and Fridays if you-"  
"That clinic is crap," I mutter.

"Can we talk outside, Dr. Shepherd?" Owen asks and I roll my eyes in disbelief. I hate when he puts on his professional side. It's like I've lost him to The Chief of Surgery. Nothing can break through that barrier. I click my tongue and follow him into the hallway, leaving Jo alone with Arizona.

"Owen," I start as soon as we're in the hallway. "No one is going to be here in this room anyway. Just take it on as a pro-bono case. This girl needs help. She's got nowhere to go."

"It's not about that!" He yells before he pulls on my arm out of the hallway and into a nearby supply closet. The broom next to me keeps falling over and nearly hitting me, so I force him to switch positions with me. He's too heated to notice. "What were you thinking?" he asks quietly.

"She needs help," I say.

"Yeah, you've said that. And you took it upon yourself?"

"If not me, then who?"

"Her family? Her friends? Literally anyone else, Amelia! I'm sure she has family to worry about her. Which is what _you_ should be doing."

"Worry about her?" I question, genuinely confused.

"No, worry about your family!" He stops and shakes his head again at me, and I feel like a child. "What are you thinking? What are your long-term plans here? So you keep her in the hospital for a day? A week? Until she gives birth?"

"No, I-"

"Then what?"

"I haven't figured it out!" I finally snap. I can feel the heat rise up to my face. I'm just sick of this question. I don't want to hear it ever again. I'm sick of not being able to give everything being used as a reason to not give anything at all. So I can't offer her a lifetime of safety and security. I can offer her one safe night. And one night is something, isn't it? "God, I don't know everything, okay?! I don't know!"

"She's not your responsibility," he says much calmer, then he pauses. "You should have told me about this."

I rock back and forth on my heels, because in all honesty, I probably should have told him about it. I shouldn't have waited until it blew up in my face. I knew what I was doing was unreasonable. Maybe I just needed to feel like I was doing something good and adventurous to pull me out of the routine that my life has become since the accident. Maybe I just needed different, and maybe I used Jo to get that. I should have told him. I shouldn't have snuck her into the hospital, but at the time it didn't feel like there was any other option.

"You can't send her home," I say, a final wave of pleading washing over me. "She's got no home to go to. If you're mad at me, don't punish her."

"I'm sorry," he says, and it feels genuine. But then he walks past me and slams the supply closet door on his way out. He uses so much force that the broom rattles and falls, knocking me square on the head.

I stand in shock of the blow for a few moments, then I shove it back in the corner and walk out and back to Jo's room. I knock and wait for her to answer before I go in. It's only her again. Owen didn't come back and Arizona is gone now too, and I really couldn't care where. Probably looking for me so she can explain to me why she just _had_ to do it and how she was _looking out for me._ Reckless Amelia at it again, that's all this is. Hurricane Amy on the warpath.

Something about the sight of Jo packing up her duffel bag makes tears sting my eyelids, but I wipe them away before they fall out. I don't know what to say, I don't know what I can say. I convinced her to come here and I made her believe she'd have a warm bed to sleep in tonight. Worst of it all, I lied to her about her child. That... is unforgivable. I know that. What I don't know is where to start.

"Jo," I say, clearly startling her. She won't look at me and I feel tears press against my eyelids once again. I shake them off, because though I know Jo and I are past professional, I still always want to be composed for her. She's still just a kid. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry about all of this. I shouldn't have put you in that situation. I hope you know you can still call me if you need anything... anything at all."

Finally, she picks her head up and when she does, I understand what I did to her. Her eyes are red-rimmed and so puffy that it's a wonder she can see out of them, her cheeks are reddened with streams of tears running freely down them. Quickly, as if she's embarrassed by it, she brings her hand up to her nose to conceal the stream trickling out of her nostrils. She snivels and nods her head, pulling herself together.

"Okay," her voice cracks as the last syllable leaves her mouth. "I-I...I still have that card you gave me...Is there a preference for which n-number you'd want me to call?" The more she tries to speak, the more her cries rise up in her throat. I step forward, my heart wrenching, and guide her arms to make her sit down on the bed to relax. I pick the shirt she was folding out of her hands and finish packing it in her bag.

"Any number," I tell her. "You can reach me at any number at any time. One is my pager and one is my cell phone. I'll get both." I remember her telling me she doesn't have a working phone and pull out my wallet, still in my pocket from when I took it out to get Teddy something from the vending machine. I only have sixty dollars in cash, but I fold it and stick it in her duffel bag. "You don't have to do this alone anymore," I tell her, but I'm more focused on finishing packing her bag. "I don't know what we're going to do, but we'll figure something out. I promise, I'll figure something out."

"Amelia…" She calls my name but her voice trails off before she says anything else. She gently places her hands on top of mine and moves them away, still managing to maintain a polite tone. Once my hands are away from her bag, she grabs the wad of cash I stuck in there, holds it for a moment, as if she wants it...and maybe she does. But she hands it back to me anyway. "I'm not taking this, okay? I'm not...please don't try to give me this," she whispers and closes her eyes as more tiny rivers flow out of them. "Please….and don't make promises you can't keep."

It strikes me again that she's never told me that she's homeless, but there are no more mental gymnastics I have to do now to know it's true. Jo is homeless and no friends and family are looking out for her, because she has none. She doesn't have to say it anymore. It's just there, sitting between us.

"We are going to figure this out," I say a little firmer. This time I stop folding to look at her. "You're not alone in the world anymore. We're on the same side now. Just... give me some time to figure it out. And I'm putting this back into your bag," I tuck the folded cash back into the front pocket. "You need a way to call me if you need me."

This time, she doesn't try to take it back out. Instead, she picks at a hangnail on her thumb, and pulls the skin back far enough to bleed. She squeezes her thumb hard against the top of her knuckle and when the drop of blood starts running, she dabs it against her jeans. She sniffs again and clears her throat, picking her head up and placing one hand over her belly.

"You think…" She turns her head to face me and for a split second, I can see that she did have it all together but in this very moment, she's losing it again. "Maybe you can figure it out...soon? Because I really don't wanna have my baby on the floor of a gas station," she says, clearly trying to tell a joke by the grin on her face but failing miserably. I pause before I ask my next question, because I don't want to offend her by it. But I'm truly not sure if anyone has gone over them with her before.

"Jo," I say. "You know... you know you have other options, right?"

"Options," she smiles but there's not a hint of lightheartedness in her tone. "What options?" She licks her lips and bites her lip and I can tell that she's really thinking about something. "...He gave me money once," she whispers. "$600. Told me to go 'take care of it', or whatever." She shrugs her shoulders and wipes her face with her hands. "I was going to...and I probably would've but...I just...I just can't bear the thought of making someone pay for my mistakes, you know? That's not fair. And sometimes I regret it. Sometimes I think I should've...but then...he does something, makes me smile and then I think...you know, how hard can it be? If we love each other, how hard can it be?" She licks her lips again and a dry giggle escapes her throat. "That was obviously before he took my car and left me stranded at a gas station."

I try to ignore the images in my head of going in to get a snack somewhere and having nothing in the world when you come back out. I don't know how anyone could be so cruel.

"You still have other options," I say, trying to watch her reaction. This topic is easy to offend. "It's too late for an abortion, but there's always adoption. There are a lot of couples that are dying for a baby. They would take really good care of her. You would be able to pick them out and maybe even have an open adoption, so you could still see her."

She pauses, genuinely thinking on the subject. I watch her throat bob as she swallows and get the chills when she sighs.

"...But then who would I have?" she asks me that with a sense of brokenness in her voice. "Then I really don't have anyone...then I really am alone. And I know I shouldn't think that, but...right now, Amelia...she's all I've got. I don't have a job, I don't have money, I don't have a house, a diploma or a phone or f-family but I've...I've got a baby...and she'll love me. She'll love me, right? At least for a few years...until she's old enough to know what a shitty hand she was dealt...but she'll love me. And I'll have her...even if I don't have anything else…" she hiccups and wipes her face with the back of her hand. "...Do you know who I would even contact for that? Do you know who I would have to see for that?"

I nod, realizing when my vision blurs that it's tears. "Yes," I squeak out. "Yes, I can get you in touch with someone that can help you with that. It would be an incredibly selfless thing..." I pause and kneel down, so I'm eye-level with her sitting on the bed. "She's going to love you, no matter what. Even if you don't see her every day, she'll love you. You're the first voice she ever heard. She spent nine months with you. You'll never be alone again. She's always going to love you, no matter what you choose for her. And you are not alone," I repeat, deciding that this point needs emphasis. "You're not alone anymore, do you hear me when I say that? We're going to figure this out together."

"Okay," she nods her head. "I'm gonna trust you on this...and I don't trust a lot of people. Last time I trusted somebody, I ended up alone at a gas station...so this is a big deal, okay? I'm gonna trust you...I'm gonna t-trust that you can h-help me...and my baby and I'm...I'm gonna go now. I'm going to leave because it's 10:00 and if I want to be locked inside the gas station by 10:30 I have to go now. B...but I'm gonna trust you…" She stands up and picks up her duffle. "I'm gonna trust you," she whispers.

"Okay," I nod. I watch her walk out with her orange bag sloped over her shoulder, and I hope to whatever is out there in the universe watching over us, I hope to the high heavens above that she isn't making the biggest mistake of her life by doing so.

* * *

 **Jo's Point of View**

 _I Owe Amelia…_ I stick my tongue out and brush it along the cherry flavored popsicle I swiped from the freezer a few minutes ago, after Vernon locked up for the night. Luckily for me, I was able to enjoy a nice meatloaf dinner before being kicked to the curb and for that reason, I wasn't hungry enough to have to steal chips. I stole a one dollar popsicle and even though it's still stealing, I do feel a little bit better for the fact that I only stole a dollar tonight as opposed to three or four. _$60. Plus the expenses of staying in the hospital for a few hours._ I hold my popsicle between my lips to free up my hands and flip the page. Once I'm back to my "I owe Stop 'N Go" page, I take the popsicle back out of my mouth and slurp it. I jot down the $0.99 that I owe them for the popsicle. Right now, I'm up to my ears in debt to a bunch of people. I have no idea when I'll ever be able to pay these people back but I swear...someday I will. Someday when I have a diploma and a job, I will. I stuff the pen down the spiral of my notebook and tuck the notebook neatly away in my duffle.

I scoot back against the ice cold linoleum floor and rest my head against the wall. I sift through my duffle and take out the two pamphlets that Amelia gave me before I left. _Adoption: Why It Is The Better Option_ and _Adoption: Your Baby And You._ I sigh and open up the first one. I could sit here and pity myself. I could sit here and sulk and mope about how unfair life is that my boyfriend left me the same way my mother did when I was two weeks old, like I was trash and just an inconvenience. I could sit here and mope about the fact that I could've, should've and would've been sleeping in an actual bed tonight. I could sit here and do a bunch of things. But sitting here and doing those things wouldn't get me anywhere. At the end of the day, I'll still be sitting here freezing my butt off, carrying a baby that's probably messed up. So instead of dwelling on how much my life truly does suck right now, I decide to think about all the good things that happened today because well, if I'm sitting here in a gas station again, I'm no better off or worse off than I was yesterday.

At least I got to check on the baby. There's probably something wrong with her, but at least I got to see that she's alive and well. At least I got to find out that I'm gonna have a daughter. At least I know now not to panic when my water breaks around Christmas instead of after New Years. At least I got to feed the baby a good, healthy meal or two. At least I got to sleep for a little while in a comfortable place. At least I made a friend in Amelia. At least Amelia's not going to lose her job. A lot of good things came out of today. It wasn't all bad. I stifle a yawn with the back of my hand and close the pamphlet I was trying to read. I reach up and turn off the light.

Before I close my eyes, I place my hands on my belly and try to smile. _It's just you and me kid._ I press my fingertips hard into my belly and smile in satisfaction once she gives me a nudge back. _Yeah...I promise it'll just stay you and me. I'm not giving you to strangers, I promise. No adoption...it's just you and me kid._

And that's how it's going to stay.

* * *

 **Amelia's Point of View**

The room is dimly lit, the music blaring. The song is familiar, but I can't place it. I've heard it on the radio a few times. It's catchy, a really good beat. Something like na na naaaaa na yeah! I wish I knew the name so I could remember where I heard it. It smells like cheap alcohol and desperation and hunger. Not regular hunger, though. It smells like the hunger that arises when someone is deprived of what they want most: validation, approval, acceptance, love. The whole row of them. Everyone in a bar is hungry. Everyone everywhere is a little bit hungry, I think.

I walk through the dance floor, squirming my way through the sweaty bodies. I know if I sit down at the bar I'll have a drink. And if I have one drink, I'll have another. It just comes so easily once it starts. It doesn't seem like such a bad idea after that first drink is in me.

Last time I was here, I ended up sick, leaning over the counter. The bartender pushed me off, but it was too late. I vomited all over the back of the bar, all over his shoes, and all over myself. That shame was enough to keep me away for awhile. I considered finding a new bar. I could have. It wouldn't have been that hard. But I decided that was my wake-up call. Just like that, and then I was doing better. I really was. I thought I turned a new leaf. But then I just started to escape to the hospital instead, and that was even worse, because that was easier to convince myself was okay. At a bar, I always knew what I was doing was dangerous. I knew I was tottering on a line I could not cross. I knew I didn't belong there. But work? Work I belonged. Work I could convince myself was for the greater good. I was saving lives. Being at home, with my family, that suddenly felt silly. How could I waste time worrying about that when there were lives to save? Who cared about my own, anyway. Who cares?

I bump into a sweaty man, boisterous and overbearing, and he grips my arms and looks me over before he lets me go. For a moment, I'm frightened. That's because I'm still sober. If I was drunk, even if I just had a couple drinks in me, I would have found the entire exchange hilarious. The way his teeth were just slightly buck and hanging out of his smile when he looked at me, the way his hair was shaved to reveal a head that looked scarily like an egg. It would have been hilarious, the way he groped me and held onto me without consent. But I was sober. Painfully sober. And so all it did was make me a little more desperate to get to the bar.

I sit down next to a woman that is dressed up n a skin tight red dress and long black bouncy curls. She's probably here with a couple girlfriends. I feel ashamed of myself, being here and dressed so casually. This is a regular occurance for me, clearly. It's written all over my clothes, my expression. The way the bartender starts pouring a drink without asking me is just an added bonus. His name is Carl. I feel bad for throwing up on him. He's a nice guy though, and very forgiving. He puts the Bourbon in front of me and even gives me a small smile. I try to smile back, but I don't think there's anything on my face. I don't even taste it as it slides down my throat in one big gulp. I don't want to taste it, because then I have to think about what I'm doing and where I am. And that's the last thing I want to be doing.

It's been so long. That's what I think about when he slides me my second drink. Teddy is probably asking for me. I'm not there to sing to him after his bedtime story. When I finish my second drink, it's with a sour thought. Teddy isn't asking for me, not even if wanted to. He's not asking for anyone, because he doesn't talk. Suddenly, this idea seems hilarious to me. I let out one big, dry laugh and motion for my third drink, and lucky for me, it's already ready. I lick my dry lips, then lift my shirt up from my stomach to pat down my face. I'm sweating a disgusting, smelly sweat. It's like I'm actually sweating alcohol. It comforts me, though. This is the gross phase, when I'm just nearly drunk enough to stop caring.

My next thought comes clear and sharply in focus: Owen left me. When I got home, he was gone. So was Teddy. _Of course Teddy was gone too, idiot,_ I think. _You think Owen would leave his son with you? That's what he is, really. His son._ He used to be mine though.

Could he have really left over this? After everything... after the accident, he stayed by me. He stayed. He wanted to work it out, just like I do. Could he have really left over me sneaking a girl in the hospital to help her? It doesn't make sense. I'm thinking that it doesn't make any sense, that there has to be some other explanation when I tilt back my fourth drink. Now there's a tingling sensation in my fingertips and throughout my whole body, and I feel like I could just about anything. I fish through my purse for my keys, looking through the endless black hole until I finally find them and hold them in the air for my victory.

"Ah-ha!" I exclaim, wobbling towards my car. I am a woman on a mission. I have to find Owen. He wouldn't have left me. He loves me. We just need to talk it out.

I stumble with my keys, trying to fit them in the ignition. I think they made that little slot tinier since I went into the bar. Someone came in my car and jacked this stupid hole to make it tinier and harder to fit my key into! They didn't want me to find Owen! Well, I'll show them. I sit back in surprise when the engine revs on. Ha, I think. I'll show them.

I back out of the parking lot hiccuping. I have places to be.


	9. Memory

**Jo's Point of View**

 _He nudges his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with his index finger and clears his throat, licking his lips and swallowing the little bit of phlegm he coughed up in preparation to speak. His eyes leave the paper laying on the desk in front of him and flicker up towards me. When they meet mine, I feel like I want to shrink. Like I want to curl up in a ball of myself and disappear completely, fall flat, clean off the face of the earth. I don't want him to look at me. Not when he's looking at me with blatant, clear shame. I can't stand it when people look at me like they're ashamed of me...especially when I'm already ashamed of myself._

" _It...says here that you're uh…" He looks at the paper again and reflexively, my eyes follow his. I squint my eyes just slightly so I can see the paper more clearly. I shift my position in the brown cushioned chair that I'm sitting in and cross my legs, prepared for whatever "I'm disappointed in you" speech he's fixing to give to me. I'm prepared for whatever he's going to say because deep down, I know that the amount of guilt and shame he is about to bestow upon me is nothing in comparison to the amount of guilt and shame I've already bestowed upon myself. "You need my signature of approval…for request to drop out?"_

 _"Yes sir," I nod my head and fold my hands on top of my kneecap._

 _"But if I'm reading your file correctly, it is to my understanding that you're currently ranked…number one in a class of three-hundred fifty-two. You're a member of the academic league, honor society and scored a 1530 out of 1600 on your SATs…" He sounds genuinely confused, which genuinely annoys me. It's not his business and he should stop snooping in my file. What's it to him if I drop out or not? Regardless of my intellectual abilities? He's just the principal. He has no right._

 _"If you could just sign the paper Mr. Peterson, I'd—"_

 _"Josephine," he calls my name to cut off my sentence. "Jo." He swiftly corrects himself, which sends a shiver up my spine._

 _It's alright if he calls me "Jo." I usually only let adult figures that I'm comfortable around call me by my nickname and when he does, it forces me to realize that yeah…I am comfortable with Mr. Peterson. He knows me very well. I've been in his office on more than one occasion. Never for being reprimanded though…usually to have some kind of academic award given to me. He's always complimenting me on how kind, respectful, commendable and sweet I am. I'm a smart kid. So imagine his surprise when I came to him with this "Request to Drop Out" form._

" _What's really going on here?" He takes his glasses off and looks at me with low, caring eyes. "You know what potential you have."_

 _I close my eyes and grit my teeth. I really don't need him to sit here and remind me how great I can be. I don't need him to sit here and tell me about all the Ivy League schools I could get accepted into with standardized test scores like mine and I really, truly don't need him to give me this speech. I give it to myself at least once a day, every night before I fall asleep. I really don't need to hear it from someone else. His eyes flash down to the undeniable bump in my middle and back up to my face. I spent the last three months hiding the bump underneath baggy clothes but it's impossible now. It's prominent and it's very visible and there's no use in trying to hide it anymore._

" _And you don't have to let this define your life, there are other—"_

" _Can you just sign the paper?!"_

I turn my head just slightly to my left and the moment I do, my cheek touches something ice cold and hard, which causes me to jump. My eyes are sore and heavy, so still groggy with sleep, I bring my hands up to them and rub hard in hopes of clearing my vision. I look around for a few moments and sigh once it takes me all of thirty seconds to realize that I'm sitting on the hard linoleum floor of the cramped-up gas station bathroom, and the ice cold object that my cheek touched was actually the tile wall that my head is slumped up against. I've been sleeping in this gas station bathroom for a couple days now and tonight is actually the first time I've ever actually woken up in the middle of the night. I'm usually too exhausted to even think about waking up. I usually sleep through the entire night...but tonight, for some reason, feels a little bit different.

I'm not sure if it's what I dreamt about that made me want to wake up or if it's the fact that I'm not as tired as I usually would be due to the fact that I took a decent nap today, but whatever the reason, something internal told me that waking up was a good idea. I open my mouth and let out a harsh, dramatic yawn and rest my palms flat against the floor so I can pick myself up off of it and feel my way over to the toilet. I could just reach up and turn on the light, but it's pitch black in here and it's been pitch black for a while and I know that if I turn on the bright fluorescent lights of this bathroom, my eyes will ache even more than they already do. So I wrap my hand around the ledge of the porcelain sink and pull myself up. Intuitively, my hand flies down to my stomach and cradles it as I drag my feet the three or four paces over to the toilet.

Just as I'm about to pull my pants down and use the bathroom, I'm interrupted by a very loud, squawky, and slurred, "Jo!"

I freeze in the middle of my motion, my fingers still wrapped around the waistband of my jeans and my knees slightly bent as I already started preparations to squat over the toilet. Did somebody call my name? At this point, I'm not sure if I'm awake and fully cognizant. Like I said before, I don't usually wake up during the course of the night in this bathroom so maybe my normalcy prevailed and I'm still somehow asleep. Because I'm pretty sure that I'm hearing things. There's no way someone is calling my name, and there's no way they know I'm even in here.

"Jo! I know you're in there! I know it!"

I feel my eyes widen by about two or three sizes as I whisper to myself, "Oh my god." I'm not sure what I'm more scared of at this very moment. I don't know if I'm more worried about the fact that someone knows I'm in here or the fact that whoever it is clearly knows who I am when in all seriousness, I haven't the slightest idea who it could be. I don't recognize that voice. What if it's the police? God, what if they found Chris, locked him up, ran my license plate and found me here? What if they're going to arrest me next? Oh my God, they wouldn't make me have my baby in a jail cell, would they? Who would they give her to? They wouldn't let me keep her in jail, would they? Of course not. There are no cribs in jail. Then again...if someone took her...that'd be a hell of a lot better than having to raise her in a gas station. Should I go out there? If it's the police, should I go out there and let them know that yeah, I'm the girl that was on the run with Christopher Douglas. I'm the one that the car is registered to...I'm an accomplice to everything. Should I tell them? Or should I stay in here and pretend like I'm not in here? I don't know.

I adjust my pants on my waist and drag my feet quietly over to the door. Maybe if I just...explain to them? Maybe if I just tell them the truth, that I was never involved in selling the drugs. I was never involved. I was around while he was making it and I witnessed him sell it to a few people but I swear to God I never did anything. I've never even so much as smoked a cigarette. I've never done anything with drugs, I swear to it. They might not believe me though. I take a deep breath and pull the door knob to open up the bathroom door. I tiptoe towards the front of the store, keeping my body behind the racks so whoever it is doesn't see me right away. If it really is the cops, I'll just go back into the bathroom and shut the door. I'll pretend like I'm not in here.

I could stick to telling the truth though. I always told myself that honesty is the best policy. I could just tell them the truth about everything….yeah, I could do that. I purse my lips together and start thinking of what I'm going to say while they're putting the handcuffs on my wrists. _I was never involved with the drug trafficking, I swear. And I know it's illegal to do what I'm doing. I'm stealing, I'm living in the gas station and I'm freeloading. It's illegal but I...I swear I'll pay everyone back. I just don't know what to do. My boyfriend left me here and I'm not from around here and I'm just trying to keep myself and my baby alive. That's all. I swear I'll pay everyone back for the things I've stolen once I get on my feet...if I ever get on my feet, that is._

"Jo, come on...I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE."

I wrinkle my eyebrows and narrow my eyes, because for some reason, I recognize the person that this slurred yelling of a voice belongs to all of a sudden. I snap out of whatever trance I was in and lightly jog to the front door to let her in. I guess now that I realize that it's Amelia calling my name, it makes sense that it's her. She knows that I stay here. Come to think of it, she's probably the only person in this godforsaken town that knows my name. I was worried for no reason. I wasn't thinking. Amelia makes sense.

"Amelia?" I fumble with the lock on the door and mumble a swear word under my breath as I struggle with it.

Once I finally get it open, I push the door outward and instead of letting her come inside, I migrate outside and step into the bitterly cold, fall air. In all honesty, it'd probably be better if I had let her come inside to where there's actual heat instead of having the both of us stand outside in the freezing air, but on the off chance that someone knows that Amelia and I are at this gas station right now, I don't want to drag her into trouble as well. If I get into trouble, at least she can say that she was never inside the gas station and it wouldn't be a total and complete lie. I wrap my arms around myself to keep warm and just stare at her, since she isn't really speaking anymore, since she stopped yelling. We're just staring at each other and it's somewhat awkward because neither one of us really know what to say to each other. She's dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, and I can tell that she isn't just coming back from work. I could be wrong, but if she was just coming back from the hospital, I'm fairly certain she'd still be dressed in scrubs. I could be wrong, but I don't think I am. She's coming back from somewhere else...and the loud, foul-smelling odor that's coming from her is a clear indication of where. It smells like it's seeping out of her pores in the form of sweat.

"Amelia," I take a step towards her and flinch when she steps away. "What are you doing out here?"

I decide that settling for small talk is probably the best way to go here. I'm fairly certain she's intoxicated and I don't know her well enough to know how she acts when she's under the influence. She doesn't look good though. Underneath her eyes, her usually flawless pale skin is a deepened shade of red and her eyes look like they have residual tears inside of them. I don't want to say that I'm scared of her, because I'm not. But it is a little unnerving to see her, when she's always so put-together, look like this.

"Amelia…," I whisper her name, trying to refrain from alarming her. "Are you okay?"

"See," she grins sloppily and triumphantly. "I knew you were here!"

"Did you come for something?" I don't know what else to ask her, so I settle for just that. Clearly she came here for something. I don't know _how_ she got here...I mean, obviously she drove here but what I'm saying is that I have no idea how she managed to do that and live to be standing here having a conversation with me. But obviously she came here for something and I'd like to know what. "Do you need something? From me?"

" _You_ live in a gas station," she laughs like she's just delivered a punchline. "A gas station! You're pregnant and living in a gas station! And I live in a big, fancy house all by _myself_. Why shouldn't you stay there too? Come on, let's go. We'll go now."

"You're so drunk," I whisper only loud enough for myself to hear. "Yeah," I clear my throat, speak up and nod my head at her. "Why don't we go home? To your house?" I slowly walk towards her with my hands up in a surrendering notion. I don't want her to think I'm trying to harm her or anything of that nature. She's pretty messed up right now, so I'm willing to bet that her judgment's a little screwed as well. "Let's go home." I grab onto the metal keyring in her hand and give it a gentle tug to test her reaction before I go full out and grab them.

"You don't know where to go," she snaps and pulls her ring of keys back. "You'll get us lost!"

"How about you just tell me where to go?" I gently pry the keys out of her hand. Now obviously, I'm not going to go home with her. She's heavily drunk, irrational and I highly doubt that either her husband or her son would appreciate an annoying, pregnant seventeen year old in their house. I'm not going home with her. But I'll be damned if I let her drive herself anywhere. I don't even know how she made it here safely. I just would not be able to live with myself if I let her drive out of this parking lot in this condition. The guilt will eat me alive tomorrow morning when I read the headline, _34 Year Old Local Neurosurgeon Dies In Fiery, Explosive Car Accident._ "How's that sound? I'll drive and you'll tell me where to go...like a chauffeur."

She stares at me and thinks about it for a moment, then yawns and nods, slowly handing me her keys. Apparently, whatever I said to her, it made sense in her drunk brain.

"Okay," she yawns again. "But you gotta listen. I'm too tired to get lost."

"I'll listen," I nod my head, only to make her feel better.

Before I go to her car though, I take off my socks and roll them up. I grit my teeth together to bear with the fact that this asphalt is about thirty degrees below freezing right now and walk on the balls of my feet over to the glass door that I came out of. I wad my socks up so they're nice and thick and stuff them underneath the door so that it doesn't lock when it shuts. I hate myself for thinking that lightly on my feet. I hate the fact that my brain actually came up with an alternative to being locked out. I hate that I'm sleazy enough to know that I'm going to need a way to get back into the gas station. But I rationalize that well...it's for the baby. And that's enough to make me feel okay about the fact that my socks made an excellent door stop.

At least for a little while.

* * *

I take my eyes off the road for a brief moment so I can look down and see exactly where her turn signal is. I'm used to driving my crappy old car and her new, fancy car is a big change. I'm generally aware of where turn signals should be but I have to look to be sure. I've never driven something this fancy before. I kind of like it and honestly, that's probably because I can actually fit underneath the steering wheel with my big, beach ball belly. I slap at the turn signal and make the left turn that'll lead me into the hospital parking lot. I feel kind of bad for taking Amelia's car and driving it like this, but I have good reason to believe that she wouldn't exactly mind. I could've let her take her own self home. I could've given her the keys and let her drive herself home...who knows? She might've actually made it. I'm not sure how, but she managed to drive herself to the gas station from whatever bar she crawled out of. She might've made it home. But I don't think I would like myself very much if I had let her drive herself home while she's as inebriated as she is.

Speaking of Amelia, I think she's fallen asleep. She's been silent for a while now and I've been driving in solitude. I glance at her through the rear view mirror and sigh when I can't see much of anything. Her head is slumped to the side and resting against the window but I can't see much of anything past that, so I give up. You know what? For a moment upon pulling out of the gas station parking lot, I actually thought she would be competent enough to tell me where she lived. I actually felt myself get a little excited at the possibility of seeing where Amelia Shepherd, big time neurosurgeon, lived. I was kidding myself though. She got in the back seat of the car, put her head against that window and has been quiet ever since. So I took her to the only place I knew she'd be safe.

I sigh again and turn the wheel and pull into the parking lot of the hospital. When I pull up, I'm halfway expecting to see a few people standing outside. It's a hospital, after all. I'm expecting people to be outside, people that will recognize her and take her inside and maybe call her husband or someone else that cares about her. I'm proven wrong, though. Opposed to the hundreds of people I was expecting to be outside, there's only one. I'm not close enough to make out details just yet, but I can tell that it's a guy solely by the way the shoulders are squared off. I circle around the parking lot for a few moments before picking a parking spot close to the doors. I imagine she'll be pretty hungover tomorrow morning and the last thing she'll want to do is look for her car. I shut her car off and step out of it with a hand braced against my belly, walking around to the back to help her out.

"Amelia?" I call her name as I rest my hand against her knee-cap. She stirs and groans, flapping one hand up to swat me away.

"Go away," she mumbles.

"I'm workin' on it," I mumble back and help her out of the car.

I bump her door shut with my hip and let her rest against my body for support as we walk towards the entrance of the hospital. As we get closer and closer to the door, I see that I actually recognize the man that's standing outside. He's holding a phone to his ear and he's talking loudly, barking at whoever it is on the other end of that phone. His voice is intimidating, but I roll my eyes up to the black night sky and silently thank the God that I doubt exists. Thank GOD it's her husband. He'll know what to do with her.

"What do you mean you don't know?" He barks. "She's tiny, dark hair. She'd have ordered a vodka tonic, probably more than one. She- I know you have a lot of people coming in and out all night! Can you just check credit cards? If she paid with one it would be under-" He stops when I come up behind him, and it takes him all of two seconds to realize who I have leaning, both physically and metaphorically, on me. He returns back to his phone. "Yeah, thanks anyway. You were absolutely no help." He hangs up and looks at us both, me with confusion in his eyes worn like a pair of glasses, but he looks at Amelia with what is clearly love and concern underneath anger that is brimming even more to the surface the longer he stares.

"Are you- from earlier?" He asks.

I just nod my head because in truth, I can't find my voice. He's intimidating and quite frankly, after the episode where he kicked me out earlier, I'm not entirely sure if he even likes me. He probably thinks I'm just another useless, pregnant teenager. A stain on society. How do I speak to someone that has that impression of me? It's not until this moment I realize that I'm still nodding.

"I'm sorry... about earlier. I hope you know it was entirely professional. It was nothing against you. It's just Amelia-" He stops and looks her over once again, this time much less angry. "How did you find her?"

"I-I-" I stumble over my words as my mind is moving faster than my lips can keep up. Although I'm pretty sure that he already knows I'm living in a gas station, I don't want to actually say it. I don't want to actually tell him that she came to me in the middle of the night, banging on the glass window of the gas station I'm living in. I just don't want to say it. Saying it is a whole different level of degrading. "I didn't find her," I shake my head. "She found me. She...wanted to drive home and I just...took her keys."

Nodding as if he totally understands my position, he finally comes forward enough shift Amelia's weight onto himself. I hand him the keys so he can make the short walk to the car. Amelia perks up again after her nap and recognizes him, but he brushes her off, the anger returning. After he buckles her into the backseat, he walks back over to me.

"I have to go get my son," he says, looking toward the front doors. "He's inside."

I nod my head once, give Amelia another look and let a soft smile crack across my face. It's not a smile of happiness...I don't really know why I'm smiling. It just seems like the most logical thing to do I guess. I want to tell Amelia "goodbye". I want to tell her "thank you" and "take care" but it's useless. I just wish the last time I saw her wasn't when she was drunk. That's not the last memory I want to have of her, but I guess I'll settle. I'll always remember her as the woman that showed me and my baby kindness when the world shut it's back on us though. I'll always, always remember that.

I tuck my hair behind my ears and scrunch my toes under in a desperate attempt to warm them up since I'm still barefoot from stuffing my socks underneath the door. I purse my lips into a hard line to bear with the fact that my feet are numb and probably frost-bitten and stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket so I can begin the twenty minute trek back to the gas station.

 **Amelia's Point of View**

As doctors, we are trained from the very beginning to fix the problem. That's our role. Stitch the cut, irrigate the wound, slather the burn, set the broken leg. There are a million different ways, thousands of different specialities, but it all comes down to one thing: fix the problem. That's why most of us become doctors, I think. That's our driving force. When people come to us, they're already broken and we've spent the better portion of our lives learning how to fix them.

In residency, I struggled with plastics. I always knew I would be a neurosurgeon. There was nothing else in the world that interested me like the brain. But we had to sample all the specialities, and in my third year, my attending assigned me to a burn victim. Her entire body was covered in third-degree burns. I spent hours upon hours with that woman. We told stories, and laughed, and cried. I told her that I was a screw-up destined for a life alone, and she told me she wished she had lived her life alone. She was eight months pregnant when it happened. Her water broke and her husband was cranky because he had worked all night and had just come home to sleep through the day when it broke in the morning. "Let's get this damn thing over with," he said to her, nudging her just a little too hard. She was at the top of the stairs.

She rolled forward, tumbling downwards. She says now that she knew it before she hit the bottom, but she didn't want to believe it. After that, her husband didn't say a word. He just drove her to the hospital stoically, so she could deliver her now-dead, full-term baby.

They let her hold him. They gave her a moment alone, and when they came back, they couldn't find the body. She had hidden her baby underneath her pillow. When they tried to take him away, she was hysterical: "No! Let him be! I can take care of him! Let me take care of him!" and she had to be sedated. She said the rest was a blur. The next thing she remembered was a dream where her son was talking to her, telling her to get revenge for him. She had to listen. She set her house on fire with her and her husband in it. She wanted to die, but the firefighters got her out.

Free, she said dryly, like she was the furthest thing from it. That's what I am now.

I asked if she felt guilty.

She said she hadn't felt anything at all since her son died. Then I peeled back her burnt skin and she yelled in pain. I mean, she really screamed. And then I realized that skin grafts or no skin grafts, this woman was broken, and no doctor, no matter how well trained or gifted they may be, could fix her. It was too late.

If you're starting in the aftermath, it's already a little too late. I should have known that.

Walking down the stairs of my house brings me closer to the stench of eggs cooking, my least favorite smell, but it makes me smile. Owen and Teddy always eat eggs together, and for a minute, I forget where I am or when. For that one minute, it's Owen and me, and Teddy is still a little chubby-faced three-year-old, still innocent to a world outside of safety and goodness, and bubbling with giggles over eggs with Daddy in the morning.

But I walk into a kitchen with a stone-faced Owen standing over the pan, and my silent five-year-old. The eggs were right, though. My head is ringing a little from a hangover, but it's manageable. At least for an old pro, it is. I have a million questions running through my head for Owen, but I don't ask any of them. I don't even look at him. I'm afraid that if I do, everything will come crashing down. The one thing I _do_ remember for sure is that I came home to empty drawers and an empty house, and Owen left me. For some reason, he's back now, and if I ask him why, then he'll tell me. And I don't want to know why. I want to believe it's because he loves me. Because he didn't want to take Teddy from me. Because he realized he made a mistake and he wants to stay and work it out with me, no matter what or how long it takes. So I don't ask him. Because as long as he doesn't tell me, I don't have to know.

"Hi Buddy," I say, kneeling by Teddy's chair. He stops coloring and smiles at me so his eyes crinkle into nothing but little lines on his face. He turns back to his paper and in purple crayon, messily spells ou y. He looks back at me, pride swelling his face, and smiles again. "That's right. Mommy." I kiss the top of his head and pick up a red crayon, squeezing an extra m into his word. He nods in understanding, giving me yet another smile. Our best way of communication, these days.

"Hi," Owen says. I look up at him, but he isn't looking at me. I walk over to him and stand across the counter, where he's pushing around scrambled eggs in the pan with a spatula.

"Hi," I say. "How are you?"

"I should be asking you that."

"What does that mean?" I scrunch my eyebrows, genuinely confused. I wish I could remember last night clearer. After going to the bar, I remember thinking about Jo. I was going to do something with her. Go find her, I think. I must have got side-tracked and gone to Owen.

"Really, Amelia?" He sighs and turns off the stove, dividing the eggs onto three plates.

"I hate eggs," I say.

"They're not for you."

"Then what-?"

He looks over my shoulder and beyond me. For the first time since my eyes locked on Teddy, I follow Owen's gaze and look at the couch. There is a lump on it.

A blanket lump.

A human-shaped blanket lump.

"Owen," I hiss, more angry at the fact that I'm so caught off-guard. "Who is that?"

"Your friend," he mumbles.

"I don't have any-," I start, then my mind wanders. Arizona? Why would she be on my couch? Owen would have said "sister" if it was Meredith or Maggie, and it was neither of them, anyway. Neither of them would be sound asleep on my couch. They would have woken me up. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you remember last night?"

"No," I shake my head, lowering it a little with shame. It feels like a confession. "I don't. At least not everything."

I turn back toward the couch and see the lump moving. When she pulls the blanket off her face, there is a tuft of brown hair. A baby-face I know too well, and a swelling belly to compliment it. I can see her waking up from sleep still, rubbing her eyes, but I walk over to her anyway and sit on the coffee table.

"Jo? Are you okay?" I look back at Owen, taking waffles from the waffle maker and

setting them on four different plates, one clean of eggs. "What happened? Did something happen to her?" I turn again to give my attention to Jo. "Are you okay?"

Last night I came home to no one. I went out for a drink, and I woke up in a house with my husband cooking breakfast, my son smiling sweetly, and the girl from the gas station sleeping in my living room.

What the hell happened?


	10. Give and Take

**A/N:** Hey guys, I know this story has been on hiatus for a while, but it's back now. We just got so busy with school and having opposite schedules, it got hard. So we decided to forgo the story until after school and now that we're both out for the summer, we can concentrate on it again! I hope you guys are still with us!

* * *

 **Jo's Point of View.**

"Are you okay?" her voice rings in my ears and it takes me a moment to really register what she's saying to me because for the first time in God knows how long, I slept. Dreamlessly, too. And now, I'm a tad bit delirious.

Sure I slept in the bathroom. And I must admit that for a bathroom, I slept pretty well in it too, with my head propped against the dirty tile wall and my butt against the cool linoleum floor that was swarmed with ants. Okay so, it wasn't the cleanest. In fact, it was actually pretty filthy looking back at it. But it was comfortable and up until now… Well, I couldn't really complain because it's not like I had any other alternative. But now? Now I can. And the bathroom freaking sucked.

For once, my back doesn't hurt so bad and I can actually breathe when I lie down. I used to think people were lying when they said that the baby pushes on your lungs and makes it hard for you to breathe because biologically speaking, that didn't seem to correct but I think it's true now that I've seen it firsthand. Anyway, I just slept really comfortably last night and that's thanks to Amelia's husband. Come to think of it, maybe he's not as bad as I once thought. He scared the crap out of me once upon a time, back when he was kicking me out of the hospital but I'm starting to think that my first impression of him was wrong.

First impressions usually are though, and that's the bad thing about first impressions. They can either be awfully right or awfully wrong. I wonder what Amelia's first impression of me was. I assume she liked me, otherwise I wouldn't be laying on her couch and I probably wouldn't have interested her enough to tell me she'll check on my baby for free. She probably liked me right off the bat and I'll tell you freely that if she did, she'd be the first. Most people just usually look at me, see the stomach and assume I'm just another stain on society. I think maybe that's why I like Amelia. She didn't judge me right off the bat. She judged me based off the content of my character… Not based off what's underneath my sweater.

"Y-yeah," I say finally, and I have to be honest when I say that I don't really recognize my voice when it comes out. I guess I'm just used to sounding a certain way and now that I don't anymore, it caught me a little off guard. I'm used to sounding...tired, I guess. "I'm alright. Are you?"

"I don't know," she answers me and I know that I don't really know Amelia all that well but I think I know her well enough to know when she's confused or unclear about something and she definitely is right now. Her eyes are low and worrisome and when she's done looking at me, she looks over at Owen. I don't think I'm supposed to notice this, but I do. I notice that Owen won't look at her. She notices this too. "Did I... I'm sorry, did I bring you back here last night?"

This time, her tone is firm, but still confused and I think she must really not know. She really doesn't remember, does she? She doesn't remember showing up last night. She doesn't remember showing up at the gas station, banging on the door and asking me to let her in. She doesn't remember the look of disgust, mixed with love and compassion that her husband gave her. There's a piece of me that doesn't want to tell her, either.

Right now, she's clueless; hanging in that little moment suspended between innocence and ignorance and it'd be a total and complete shame to pop that bubble. I wish I could keep her there. In that place, I mean. In that place where last night isn't a memory; it just didn't happen. That place where she doesn't know that I saw her at what I assume to be her worst. That place where she doesn't know that her husband-I think his name is Owen-was outwardly mortified with her behavior. I want to keep her innocent.

But the truth is, she had nothing to do with it. Maybe, to some extent, she did but not really. She wasn't the one that extended the offer, I mean.

"Not really…," I start.

 _It's crazy how much different the world looks in the dark. I mean, obviously I know the road I'm walking down is the same road I walked down earlier when I was coming to my doctor's appointment and obviously I know this road is the same one I drove Amelia's car down. I know it's all the same. But it really does look different in the dark. I suppose it's not completely dark, though. The stars in the sky are pretty bright and they kind of light a nice little path for me; not to mention, the streetlights lining the parking lot help too. But it's still...dark, you know? I don't think I like the dark, now that I'm thinking about it._

 _Anyway, I think it's safe to say that Amelia is safe. She's going to be taken home by her husband and by the looks (and sounds) of it, it seems like he knows how to handle her when she gets like this. Actually… As I was driving her here and glancing at her through the rearview mirror… I had a thought. And I swear to God, I hate myself for thinking this way, but I did. I thought it. And I thought that maybe... Maybe Amelia has a problem._

 _I'm probably wrong, though. I'm probably wrong and she's probably fine and she's probably just an occasional drinker but now I can't shake that thought and even though I don't want to think that and make assumptions based off things that I'm really not sure of, but the thought is there and it's in my head and I can't get it out and I should probably just-_

" _Do you have a place to stay?" Interrupting my thoughts, his voice is loud and it's clear and it kind of reminds me of something you'd hear in the military. It's the kind of voice that commands respect. And it startles me._

 _Slowly, I turn around to face him. By now, we're standing ten, maybe twenty feet away from each other so it's not like either one of us has to shout for the other to hear. We're relatively close. If I whispered, he'd probably be able to hear it. But in a way, he kind of scares me. So I just shake my head._

" _Where are you walking to? Could you use a ride... or something?" Back when I was in school, my old home economics teacher used to tell me that I had a real gift for reading people. I don't know if what she said is true, but I think he's nervous. He's stuttering and stumbling over words like he can't make them fit and I don't get it. Why's he nervous to talk to me? I'm just me. Or maybe...maybe he's just uncomfortable._

" _I'm just...I'm...," it's like our nervous energy is just bouncing off of one another or something. For a split second, I think about lying to him. Lying and telling him that I'm walking back to somewhere warm with people that actually give a damn about me. But he's like Amelia. He's like her in a sense that I can't really lie to him, even if I wanted to. "The Stop 'N Go...down the street."_

" _That's on my way, anyway. Come on, I'll give you a ride."_

" _Thank you."_

"He offered to take me back to the gas station," I clear my throat, just so I can continue explaining the story to Amelia. She's listening to me intently, as if I'm telling her the most intriguing story the world has ever heard. I don't know why, because it's not like it's super interesting, but she's holding onto my every word. "But once we got in the car…"

" _Is someone picking you up here? I don't see a car."_

" _It's fine, don't worry about it," I assure him and pull up the lock so I can let myself out of the car. "Thanks for the ride."_

 _He says nothing else to me and in a way, he seems content with my "thank you." I pull the lever to open up the car door and just as I'm stepping out, he glances in the backseat, then heaves a hard and very loud sigh. "Wait a minute. Do you have somewhere to go?" His eyes flicker to the door of the gas station and I bite my lip to silently chastise myself because I know he noticed the stupid socks holding the door open for me. It's like a lightbulb goes off in his mind, I can see it as it all comes together and a look of all-knowingness flits across his face. "How long have you been sleeping here?" he asks, his tone slightly accusatory._

" _A...few days," I say and as soon as I do, my head just involuntarily hangs itself. Shame is a serious thing, you know. It kind of sits on your shoulders and wears you down. I guess it's not really a secret that I've been staying in there but still, it's not like I wanted him to know. "Just a few days."_

" _You know you could get in serious trouble for that, right? If the owner finds out, you're breaking a law." He pauses and his hand flies to the back of his head. I can almost see the debate going on his head: is it his problem to worry about, or is it not? I want to tell him that it's not. I want to tell him that I'm not his responsibility, but for some reason, my mouth won't open. I'll let him have this debate. He could go either way. Finally he says, "I don't know anything about you, except that Amelia, for some reason, trusts you. She doesn't go out of her way for people that often, so there must be something about you. We've got a warm house and a spare couch. I wouldn't feel right leaving you here."_

 _Is he really offering? I...I can't. I know I can't. I'm already more indebted to Amelia than I can even wrap my mind around and… Maybe I shouldn't. It's...It's not a gas station...and...No. No, I can't. I can't. I can't go home with them. If I do, then I'll never...what if I just stay for a little? What if I just stay for the night? Just the night? I'll leave in the morning and then I'll never see them again except for whenever I pay them back in the future and...okay yeah. That's what I'll do. I'll just go stay with them for the night. Just the night. Only the night._

" _Thank you," I whisper to him and find myself shutting the door again._

"He gave me this blanket and a pillow and I kind of just...I guess I just fell asleep," I finish and Amelia is still listening as if I'm going to say something else. "Your husband...he's really um...scary, by the way."

A laugh escapes Amelia's lips, and as if the sudden release of emotions triggered all of them at once, the tears in her eyes to start to show themselves more clearly. They don't fall, though. Instead, she looks at Owen with a bright, audacious little grin, and this time he's actually looking back at her, and he doesn't look at her like she's a fly that needs to be squashed. No, instead, he returns it with small smirk of his own.

I know I'm looking at them like a starstruck little child, with my mouth open and my eyes wide, but I can't help it. I've never saw anything like that before. I don't know what it is, but I know that I want that someday. Not the whole "look at me like a fly" thing, but the other thing. When I look at them...and study the look she gave him and the look he reciprocated… He thinks the sun shines out of her rear end and she thinks the same and...I want that someday. I hope someday somebody looks at me the way they just looked at each other. I think that's love. I think that's what it's supposed to look like.

When Amelia looks back at me, she's got a new confidence. This new way of looking at me, this way that forces me to shut my mouth and come out of the state of complete mesmerization that I was in. It's the kind of confidence that comes from having a good idea, I think.

* * *

 **Amelia's Point of View.**

When Jo retold the story to me, I was grateful for the parts that she left out. I'm sure she thought she was saving me from embarrassment by not bringing them up. She had no way to know that I knew already - not because I remembered last night, but because of how many nights I've had exactly like it before. She doesn't know about how many fights Owen and I had, when he rehashed the details for me in words sharp enough to cut all my defenses into pieces.

She didn't know, of course, that I could fill in the blanks myself. I liked her more for it. I liked her for not knowing every mistake I ever made. Owen and I knew each other too well sometimes, so well that I knew he was on my side again. Maybe he always was, as he likes to tell me, but for the first time in a long time, maybe since the accident, I felt it.

I knew by his smile that he liked her too. He had wanted to help her too.

I turned back to Jo with my lingering smile, widening it as my idea grew in my head.

"You ever consider being a receptionist at a hospital?" I don't have to look at Owen to know he's still smiling, which means he's still on board. That was the perk of knowing each other too well, I guess. We didn't even need to talk about it to be on the same page.

"A receptionist?" her eyebrows wrinkled and for a moment, I thought that she was really offended but when she straightened them, I knew she wasn't. She was just confused. "I never really...N-no, I haven't," she babbled and shook her head.

"Well now that you are, what do you think about it? I know it's not the best paying job, but if you're planning to stay in Seattle for awhile, it's something. You can stay with us while you start saving up. There's an opening on the surgical floor Owen and I work at that he hasn't filled yet."

Her face brightens, and she looks like she could cry at the offer. Just as quickly as it lit up though, it fades. Her shoulders slouch and her face falls. "I would love to... I really need the money and there's not really much I could do in my...condition. But I can't. Thanks, but I can't," she shakes her head and looks away from me.

"What do you mean? Jo, we can get you the job. You don't have to worry about not getting it because you're pregnant. It's full time, so you'll get maternity leave and everything."

"It sounds great, but…," I watch her throat as it bobs when she swallows. Guilt and shame are both written on her face the way someone would write with a pen. It's a look that's not at all hard to read. "I don't know of any place that'd hire someone without an um…," she sighs. "I didn't graduate. High school, I mean. No diploma, no GED, nothing. It sounds great, but I'm not gonna get it so let's just...forget about it."

"Okay," I nod, then I stand up to pretend I'm really going to let it go. I pick up the two plates left on the counter, since Owen and Teddy already ate theirs. I heat Jo's up first, tapping my fingers on the counter while I wait. When the microwave beeps, I call to Jo from the kitchen, "Hungry?"

She raises her eyebrows as if she's genuinely surprised again, at the offer. She nods her head and stands up quickly...maybe a little too quickly. She braces her hand on her belly and regroups before walking over toward me. "Do you know anywhere else, though? Anywhere else that would hire me?" her eyes flicker down to the plate of food and she looks grateful for it. "I'm almost eighteen so I can do pretty much anything that doesn't really require a diploma...right?"

"We'll figure something out. Don't worry." To emphasize my point, I wave my hand in the air between us. I think I brushed it off too strong. I try to collect myself and re-group. "Just worry about breakfast. We'll worry about the rest later."

My mind flickers back to the incident in the hospital, to the decision I made to lie to Jo about her baby. I convinced myself I was doing the right thing because the outcome was worth the means of getting there. Watching Jo pack her single duffel bag up in tears when it bit me in the ass, I swore I would figure out something better. I would find a way to help Jo without lying to her. She was young, but she was also smart. She was about to be a mother. I would show her enough respect to tell her the truth. I swore to myself.

Now here I was, planning what lie would get Jo to the hospital tomorrow with me to stumble into an interview. Once again, I told myself I knew what was right. Once again, I'd lie to Jo to get her to do something that I wanted her to do. The worst part, the part that I hated most, was the little voice that kept telling me it was okay. _You're doing it for the right reasons. She'll be thankful once she gets it. If you're going to offer her a place to stay, you get a say in this._

I didn't. I didn't get a say in it, and to make sure my brain knew that fully, I ate my breakfast silently across from her. I swallowed every word. Sometimes they got so far that my mouth opened in preparation, but Jo kept her head down while eating, so it gave me the time to close it before any sound came out.

"We have a guest bedroom," I blurt out. This one, I can tell immediately, Owen was not on the same page with me. By this point, he's sitting on the couch with Teddy with a beginner's book of american sign language, but he stops and looks right at me when he hears this. I ignore him and instead keep my gaze strictly on Jo. "It's repayment," I explain. "You might have saved my life last night."

Her mouth hangs open and for the first time, she's looking at me as if she can't actually believe the offer. Her eyebrows are raised, her mouth is slightly gaped open and her usual baby-face actually shows signs of adulthood for once. "...Amelia, I...I can't," she shakes her head. "I can't possibly. I'm just...I can't. I really can't."

"It's harder to say yes than it is to say no," I nod and pick up her empty plate for her, facing the sink and away from her as I continue. "If it was just you, I would understand. But you have a daughter, and once she's here, you're going to be making unimaginably hard choices. The only way you'll know which one is the right choice is by which one is the best one for her. If you say no Jo, where are you going from here?"

As soon as I mention the baby, her hand flies down to her stomach and she looks down at it, as if she can actually see her. Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears, her shoulders slouch, and once again, she looks like exactly what she is again: a baby. She bites her lip and I see her jaw tremble for a split second before she stops it.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks, finally looking up at me. Tears are now streaming down her cheeks but she doesn't bother to wipe them away, as if she can't even feel them. "Why? Do you stick your neck out for every pregnant teenager you run into or is it just me?" she sniffs and looks away. "I can't give you anything. I can't give her anything either, but I...I don't have anywhere to go, you're right. I don't have a job, I don't have money and I don't have a family...the only thing I've got is a baby. And I can't give you anything in return. You're being so nice to me and I really do appreciate it and I swear one day I will pay you pack for all of this but I can't take your offer. I can't keep taking things from you when I can't give you anything back, Amelia. I'm sorry."


End file.
